


The Pines Down Under

by PresidentStalkeyes



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Animals, As Written By An English Person, Australia, Australian Cryptids, Canon Compliant, Contains At Least One Illustration, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Gladiator Games, Humor, Post-Canon, Psychic Abilities, References to Aboriginal Mythology, References to Journal 3, References to Lost Legends, Road Trips, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28121160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresidentStalkeyes/pseuds/PresidentStalkeyes
Summary: One year after the Pines' fateful summer in Gravity Falls, things haven't turned out as expected for Dipper and Mabel's final year of middle school. Dipper's newfound role as Grunkle Ford's long-distance understudy and Mabel's drive to 'work on herself' has done much to distract them, but insecurities, especially about the future, are harder to kill than nightmare demons.Meanwhile, the Stans have taken the hunt for Weirdness global, spending the last year chasing down 'Weirdness Hotspots' - and they've received word of a major hotspot down under: the lost town of Coiled Springs, Australia. Unfortunately, as a side-effect of slow sea travel, their mission will last well into the summer; faced with the prospect of missing their niece and nephew's 14th, they opt to change their plans - and insist that the kids come to them.Joined by Soos, Wendy, and Melody, the Mystery Crew embark on a road trip across the outback to hunt down their missing town, dealing with Weird wildlife, time travelers, the finer points of multidimensional physics and enough anxiety to last a lifetime; a typical Pines vacation.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	1. My Brain Is Being All Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for taking the time to read my story. Full disclosure first, though - I am extremely rusty on the writing front. I haven't written a fanfic in over three years, possibly more.
> 
> Also, yes, I know I'm pretty late to the Gravity Falls fanfic party, but I only just watched the show in full a few weeks ago, and it just... really got its hooks in. I hadn't felt such a strong 'I must write fanfics about this show at once' urge in a long, long time. Also, I cried on numerous occasions, which is pretty unusual for me because I don't do emotional display too good. Then I read some other people's fanfics to get inspiration and I cried even more. So, kudos to Alex Hirsch for doing the impossible by not only making me cry, but inspiring others to keep making me cry!
> 
> Speaking of, Gravity Falls is (C) Disney, I don't own anything, I'm just a big ol' fan; you know the drill.
> 
> Oh, and one last warning - yes, this story features a lot of Australia; however, I am not Australian, I am English. I've never even been there. If any actual Australians happen to be reading this, I apologize in advance.

When they came back to Piedmont after that summer, Dipper was sure the Weirdness was over with until next year, or at the very least, dramatically reduced. He was right, for the most part; but that was just Weirdness with a capital 'W'. There was always regular weirdness. Sometimes, it could be even weirder than Weird - and if Dipper thought of the word 'Weird' one more time in the next five minutes, he was sure he'd have a headache.

He knew that Mabel was going to dedicate the next year to some serious self-improvement - she said it herself, between the triple punch of accidentally starting an apocalypse just to get one more day of summer, having to deal with an evil version of herself, and learning she almost strangled her brother before they'd even left the womb, she needed it.

"So like, what," Dipper had said, "art therapy, yoga classes, meditating under marzipan-scented candles?"

"Some of those things", Mabel had answered, "but what I really want is to learn how to vent my frustrations in the most constructive way - _punching and strangling people_!"

At the time, Dipper had assumed she was joking. That was then. Now he was standing outside a Mixed Martial Arts ring that had been set up in the school gym. Just on the other side was his twin sister, hair tied back and decked out in bright pink MMA padding.

She'd grown over the last year - somehow, she was _still_ taller, and on top of that, she was starting to show _muscle_ from all the 'martial art therapy' she'd been doing - at this rate, she might end up giving Grenda a run for her money by the time she'd finished high school. Meanwhile, Dipper looked back at himself, almost exactly the same as last year minus a few inches, a few sparse chest hairs and even sweatier than before. So much for puberty.

Still, neither of them could hold a candle to the other girl in the ring with Mabel - a blonde girl, clad in blue and a whole head taller. Courtney Cortez, was her name - according to Mabel, she was the current 'champion' of this Junior MMA club that had been set up last year. Dipper hadn't paid much attention, thinking it was just one of his sister's fleeting interests, like that whole sock puppetry debacle. Then before he knew it, it was almost summer again and here Mabel was, about to try fighting the toughest middle school student in Piedmont. Not a hotly-contested title, but still.

"Mabel, are you sure you want to do this?" Dipper said, already sweating as he saw stone-faced Courtney staring them down from the other side of the ring. "I don't think I've seen her smiling once. Not even condescendingly. I'm getting serious 'I don't even enjoy kicking butt, but it's all I know' vibes... r-right? You know what I mean?"

"Less talky, more drinky!" Mabel said back, holding open her mouth. Dipper passed in her bottle of homebrewed 'Mabelade' ('it's got caffeinated caffeine!') for her to drink; after taking a couple gulps, she passed it back, dramatically wiping her mouth and emphatically not looking away the entire time. "Don't worry about me, bro-bro. Last I checked, Courtney doesn't even _look_ like a triangle demon! There is literally nothing that can convince me not to do this!"

"Not even if she was holding a kitten hostage?"

"She WHAT?!" Mabel yelled, tensing up. "Oh, she is SO _dead_! Nobody holds kittens hostage on _my_ watch!"

"No no wait, that wasn't a rhetorical question, it- no, it was a rhetorical question, but not in the way you think!" Dipper tried to explain, but before he could finish, Mabel had already shoved her pink mouthguard into her mouth and marched up to the middle of the ring.

It seemed as though Courtney understood that 'it was happening' now - receiving some murmurs of encouragement from the small crowd of kids gathered around her, she also sauntered over to meet Mabel.

For a good few seconds, the two of them just stood there, chest-to-chest, staring each other down. Mabel felt the taller girl glaring icy daggers right at her, and so she responded in kind, narrowing her eyes to deliver _flaming swords_. Courtney apparently retaliated with _Antarctic mega-spears_ , and Mabel felt a slight chill. An actual, literal chill. Their hair began to sway dramatically in the wind, even though they were indoors.

Dipper _had_ wondered why they set up the ring right next to a huge air conditioning vent.

A short 11-year-old boy in a striped t-shirt approached the two girls. "Right, now remember, you two, this is gonna be a nice clean fight! That means no cheating! ...You do know what 'cheating' means here, right?" the self-appointed referee asked. The girls didn't break their stare for a second. The referee frowned and began to whisper. "...Seriously, I actually don't know. I don't even like watching girls fight. It's kinda icky..."

"Courtney..." Mabel suddenly began to whisper, "...you have disrespected the sanctity of the kitten, and for that, _I will break you_."

Courtney's stony expression faltered for a moment. "...I did what?"

Mabel promptly sucker-punched her right on the cheek, making her reel back.

The referee quickly backed away. "Oh, okay, okay, we're starting now, I guess! Remember, no cheating! Whatever that means!" he yelled before frantically clambering over the side of the ring and out the room.

Even though Mabel's punch landed on protective headgear, Courtney still brushed a hand over it as though it was 'real'. She quickly shook it off, however, and got into her fighting stance. She ducked, rushing in, and tried to throw a cross to the jaw, but Mabel, pumped up on Mabelade and righteous kitten-related fury, was quick to duck, countering with a body blow and a kick to the shin.

Courtney tried to grab Mabel's lowered head and follow up with a knee, but once again, she missed - the shorter girl sidestepped her and retaliated with a kick to the ribs - the sharp impact made her lurch forward to protect her stomach, giving Mabel an opening to throw another punch to the cheek and an uppercut right in the centre of her face.

Courtney apparently reeled back again from that impact, but for a split second, Dipper noticed she was tensing up, getting into a more defensive stance.

"Mabel, wait, it's a trick!" he called out, but she had already taken the bait, throwing a heavy punch. Courtney blocked it with her elbow, and knowing that her opponent would follow up with a high kick, she dodged and grabbed Mabel's leg, then grabbed the other one to throw her off her feet, slamming her down on the mat.

"Oh no...!" Dipper blurted out in alarm, seeing Courtney literally right on top of his sister - her opponent trapped, the taller girl began furiously punching her in the face, over and over. Dipper winced at the sight - he wasn't the one getting punched, but he could practically feel every single shock to the skull, twitching about each time. Mabel needed to think smart, but how could you think when the organ used for thinking is getting beaten in? She needed a sign.

“Mabel, the triangle! _Remember the triangle_!”

Almost immediately, Dipper could see Mabel’s bruised face twist into a snarl, as she blocked one of Courtney’s incoming punches and pushed against her head, wrapping her legs around her neck - which, according to Mabel, was called a ‘triangle hold’. Of course, that wasn’t the reason for the snarling. Dipper decided to terminate any further thought of _that._

Mabel attempted to use her new position to roll over and switch places, but the taller girl held firm - using her immense strength, she stood up, lifting Mabel high off the ground, intending to slam her down hard. Not wanting to be on the receiving end of a powerbomb, Mabel put Courtney in a forward-facing headlock, so when she let go of her legs, she’d hold on - once that happened, Mabel flipped herself around so she sat behind Courtney’s head, like some kind of weaponized piggy-back.

“Wooo, NICE! Go Mabel!” Dipper yelled out as his sister began to apply a chokehold. “Think of the kitten, _think of the kitten!_ ”

“HNNNNGGGHAAAAAAH!” Mabel screeched as she tightened her grip around the taller girl’s neck, making her face almost as blue as her gear. She wouldn’t relent, however; instead, she stayed on her feet, shoving one of her free hands into Mabel’s face and reversed, fast, into one of the pillars, right next to Dipper. The hard slam made the angry Pines twin lose focus, giving Courtney enough wiggle room to elbow her in the face twice and throw her off, like an unwelcome backpack.

Courtney stopped to massage her windpipe before turning her attention to… Dipper.

“YOU!” she yelled at him in a raspy voice, almost reaching out to grab him beyond the fence. “Did you tell her I killed a kitten or something?! I have, like, five cats!”

“What?! N-no, I was just trying to psyche her up! Well, I wasn’t at first, but-”

“HA!” Mabel announced, taking advantage of the distraction to lunge right at her opponent and grab her by the back of the head. “You let those five cats go _NOW_!” she demanded, kneeing her in the chest.

“ _Oof!_ WHAT are you even talking about, you glitter fiend?!” Courtney said as she tried to dodge the knees and hook her foot around Mabel’s to trip her up again. Mabel had the same idea, and soon they were doing some bizarre dance as they repeatedly tried to catch each other’s shins with their feet.

Mabel felt that air conditioner chill on the back of her head again, and her eyes widened. She forced herself and Courtney to swivel around so the much shorter-haired girl would feel that same chill - that distraction was all she needed to catch her off-guard, getting ‘the hook’ in one of her shins and tripping her up. Now Mabel was the one tackling her to the mat, but Courtney used her superior strength to quickly undo this advantage, placing her feet under Mabel’s chest and launching her backwards.

“Look out!” Dipper called out as he saw the rising Mabel’s back turned to her opponent - who’d just lunged right at her, launching a mighty elbow strike. Once again, the warning came too late - she turned only to catch the elbow with her face. The force behind this one almost made Dipper fall onto his butt, as his sister was _airborne_ for a fraction of a second, before she spun and fell face-down on the mat.

“Mabel!” Dipper called out again, running over to her current position, or as close as possible without entering the ring. “Mabel, are you okay?!”

“Ugh…” she tried to say something as she clambered to her feet, only to be cut off by Courtney, leaping in to grab her prone form from behind and try a chokehold of her own.

“Heh… Mabel, I know what you’re thinking, and, uh…” he tried to say, as his sister’s face began to puff up to keep breathing. He _wanted_ to say ‘there’s no shame in quitting now’ - she’d made it _this_ far already, after all - but she wouldn’t want to, he knew that. She’s stubborn. Much like him, he figured. But what if… no, this is just a sport, perfectly safe! He’d checked. Only… well, he didn’t recall the exact figure, but ringside casualties in mixed martial arts are so statistically insignificant as to not be worth worrying about! Right?

He began to sweat, despite standing right in front of the air conditioner. Made the droplets on his face more noticeable as they blew across it. He looked back at this sister, who had been raising a palm above the mat, ready to slap down and admit defeat - but seeing those droplets of sweat made her expression change. Not into a snarl, but into something flat, calm, without emotion. ...Was he really that gross?

Mabel suddenly began mouthing something to herself - it was something Dipper had seen before, so he recognized what she was trying to say. ‘It’s not the worst, Mabel, it’s not the worst. It’s never the worst, Mabel, it’s never the worst!’

Then Mabel began to shake from some serious strain. With Courtney still on top of her, Mabel just began to slowly, painstakingly rise to one foot. _Now_ her face began to contort, as she bit her lip and closed her eyes from the effort. She eventually did make it to a kneeling position with one knee bent forward, but she wasn’t done - she grabbed Courtney’s arm and, with a lengthy grunt, began to forcibly push it off her neck. With only _one_ of her own arms.

Dipper’s jaw dropped at the sight, and Courtney’s eyes widened in alarm. Dipper had seen some feats from his sister, but never anything quite like this - she’d always had a weapon, or her grappling hook, at least. Now, it was hard for him to reconcile the current sister and the sister who’d had so much trouble dealing with Gideon, of all people.

Yet, she still wasn’t finished - once Courtney’s chokehold was compromised, Mabel quickly grabbed her opponent’s head - distracted and confused - and slammed it down hard on her outstretched knee, sending her reeling back. While she was barely managing to stay afoot, Mabel followed up with a heavy backhanded punch, spinning her around. Finally, she wrapped her arms around Courtney’s midsection.

“ULTIMATE _MABEL-PLEX_!” she yelled out as she toppled over backwards, slamming her opponent into the mat head-first. “THAT was for cats held hostage _everywhere!_ ”

“Wh… I don’t…” the prone Courtney groaned, but before she could finish, Mabel grabbed her arm and began to twist it. “OWWW, OW OW OW OW!” she screeched, as her face turned red and scrunched-up from the agony of the arm lock. All the while, Mabel had a dissonant grin on her face. She was looking at Dipper, pointing at her handiwork like a proud student, but her twin could only maintain his jaw drop.

Finally, Courtney couldn’t take it any more - slamming her eyes shut, she slapped her palm down on the mat three times, admitting defeat. 

A lot of the kids watching passed around shocked murmurs, but some of them began to cheer, and soon enough they drowned out everyone else. “MABEL! MABEL! MABEL! MABEL!”

Dipper’s shocked face turned into a smile. “Y-... you did it! _You won!_ ” he spluttered, beginning to laugh, and he wasted no time in heading inside the ring to congratulate his sister. She was a bit preoccupied, however.

“AAAAAAAAAGGHHH!” she roared in victory, even beating her chest like a crazed gorilla. “I’M STILL NOT DONE, MABEL IS _NEVER DONE_! ANYONE ELSE WANNA GO?! HOW ‘BOUT YOU?” she pointed at a random spectator, “OR YOU?! OR YOU?! ORRRR… _YOU?!_ ”

That last point ended up right in Dipper’s face as he walked up to her. “Heh... wait, what?”

Before he knew it, she’d pulled him over by the arm and put him in a rear chokehold, and began to affectionately noogie him, giggling maniacally. “Haha... owww, Mabel, stop!” Dipper chuckled, before he could feel a lump in his throat. “Eugh, seriously, stop, I can’t breathe...”

“Oh! R-right, sorry!” she was quick to say, releasing him. “Guess I pulled a Grunkle Stan there!”

“Heh, yeah, you sure did...” Dipper said, the smile returning to his face. “But... oh my God, Mabel, that was _amazing_! You totally kicked her ass, fair and square! You’re the champion now!”

“I sure am! O’ course, was there ever any doubt? Nope, never, not once in all time!” she said, raising her voice so the spectators could hear. “But I could never have done it without you, psyching me up and prodding me all the time! Hey, everyone,” she called out, pointing at her brother, “lemme hear some noise for my bro-bro! DIPPER! DIPPER! DIPPER!”

Dipper’s face went all flushed as he heard a few spectators begin to chant his name, and he chuckled nervously, rubbing his sweaty neck. “Heheh, c’mon, guys... I-I didn’t really do that much...”

It wasn’t long before he turned his attention to Mabel’s opponent, still lying face-down on the floor, apparently dejected. He nudged his sister, still bowing and grandstanding. “Uh, Mabel, shouldn’t you...?”

“O-oh yeah, right, yes! Doi!” she slapped her forehead before walking over to Courtney, holding out a hand. “So! You gonna release those cats now? Or am I gonna have to sit on you, fall asleep there, maybe live on your back for the rest of my life?”

“No! What is it with you and-... I never even-”

“Ha, I’m kidding, geez! C’mon!” she said, laughing. “I know Dip-Dop was just motivating me! He knows how to use... brain magic!”

“W-well, I mean, that wasn’t what I-” Dipper tried to say, only to be shushed.

Courtney finally sighed and accepted Mabel’s hand, letting her pull her up to her feet - which still looked a bit odd, given their height difference.

“Ugh, my neck...” the taller girl groaned. “How did you even do that? You’re tiny! Uh, no offence.”

Dipper couldn’t help but get a laugh out of that - he’d hoped he’d be the one to finally call his sister ‘tiny’, but this would do for now.

“Weeeeeell, I might have some latent superpowers! Or...” Mabel continued, her tone becoming a little less bright. “...Maaaybe I just thought of something, or someone, and what they’d done for me in a tough spot. Remembered how lucky I am to be alive, and happy. Or something like that.”

“Pff,” Courtney scoffed, “what, so the secret is believing in yourself? Kinda corny, ain’t it?”

“Yeah...” Mabel said, frowning for a brief moment. She quickly brightened up. “...You’re right, it _must_ be latent superpowers! The _PAIN-BOW_ may yet return!”

“Whatever you say, weirdo...” Courtney said, briefly cracking a smile. “Oh, by the way, I think my brother owes your brother twenty bucks now.”

Dipper gasped. “Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that! HEY, DEREK!”

The next few minutes went by in a flash. Mabel walked out of the ring to be greeted by a small crowd of newfound admirers - she played the showwoman, laughing, high-fiving, occasionally flexing her barely-post-pubescent muscles. Soon, she retired to the changing rooms, with Dipper waiting outside. That brief moment of panic when it looked like she was about to lose, and having his jaw hang open so much... his throat had gone way too dry. He walked over to a nearby vending machine, inserted a dollar and dispensed himself a can of... what was it, Sub-Cola? Even now, he kept hoping he’d find a nice Pitt somewhere. He came close to madness looking around every store in Piedmont, even went down to Oakland and San Francisco to see if some obscure import places had any.

Cracking it open, he took a moment to think-and-drink - while leaning casually against a wall, as you do. This really was a new Mabel he was dealing with now, he thought - maybe she’d be okay by herself after all, when the time came. Whenever that might be. College, probably. He’d asked her if she’d considered going to college, and she’d always dodge the question. ...It was weird, though - despite having a new Mabel, it all seemed oddly familiar. Dipper had assumed that things would be easy for her when they returned from Gravity Falls - much easier than it’d be for him, at least. His heart - or soul, or mind, or whatever - truly belonged in Gravity Falls, with the rest of the Weirdness, even if his body was elsewhere. Mabel, on the other hand, she was adaptive. Always the socializer. She could go to another country and fit right in with the locals.

Dipper took a long gulp of his drink and glanced down at the floor. It hadn’t quite ended up that way - if anything, it had been the opposite. Dipper hadn’t been getting any more popular in school, but he was used to it by now. Mabel, however… he had no idea what happened. He wasn’t sure if she had changed or her old friends had. Maybe she now found it impossible to relate to them, because none of them had been through anything like Weirdmageddon; or maybe they just felt they were getting too ‘old’ for things like glitter or stuffed animals or macaroni paintings. Suddenly, girls she’d been friends with since preschool started drifting away, calling her a five-year-old in a thirteen-year-old’s body. Maybe that’s why she was so eager to take up more physical pursuits, Dipper thought - after last summer, she didn’t want to go back to clinging to him whenever she was in trouble. Which was nice, but… at the same time, maybe not? He didn’t know.

His face twisted into a look of disgust; it was his ‘I don’t know’ face. ‘I don’t know and I hate not knowing’.

Suddenly, the door to the girls’ changing room burst open, and Mabel came bounding out - her hair was undone, but she was still dressed in the plain t-shirt and shorts she’d been wearing in the ring. She was frowning, and Dipper could see the telltale reflection of water on her eyes. It wasn’t there when she was leaving the ring, despite the fresh bruises.

“Mabel? What’s wrong?”

“I-It’s…” she tried to say, before fidgeting, fumbling with her phone in her hand. Dipper could make out a lot of texts on the screen. Must have been sent during the fight.

“It’s Waddles! H-he’s sick!” she finally announced, the words practically exploding out of her mouth. “We need to go to the vet’s! He must have eaten something bad, o-or… or I fed him something bad! H-he could die any second now!”

“Woah, okay, okay…” Dipper said, putting a hand on his sister’s shoulder, “I-... I’m sure he’s fine, I mean, he’s Waddles! He can eat, like… a whole barrel of, uh… chocolate-covered pretzels!”

He stopped as he felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He couldn’t brush it off like that, but what else could he have said? “...Ugh, I dunno, I’m sorry… but he’s not gonna die, don’t worry! Let’s just go to the vet’s and you can see him, and he’ll be… oinking away, like nothing ever happened!”

“He _better_! I’m _not_ leaving him alone, not now!” Mabel said before running off down the hall, Dipper chasing after her. “Mabel, wait! Where’s your bag?!”

* * *

Mabel uncovered her eyes. She didn't remember what she had just been doing - she was pretty sure she was visiting Waddles at the vet's, but now she was sitting... _outside_ , on the grass? There was _a lot_ of grass around.

She stood up, gasping, and glanced around at her new surroundings. A vast, green field under a clear blue sky, the sun locked into high noon above her. There was a faint breeze, but besides that, she couldn’t hear any signs of life. No birds, not even bugs in the grass by her feet. The dirt didn’t leave any marks on her sweater, either. It should have been a beautiful sight, but instead it all felt sterile, even more sterile than the vet’s room she thought she was in. She wasn’t even sure the grass was alive - it felt rubbery, like astroturf. The wind was all there was, ringing against her ears, blowing her about so she never forgets its presence.

She looked around, circling at least a dozen times, trying to get her bearings. This can’t be right, where is everyone? Every _thing?_ Soon, she started wandering around, trying to see if there was something just over the horizon that she’d missed. The field seemed to go on forever, as far as she could possibly see. She began to sweat.

“W-Waddles?” she called out, opting to start walking in a random direction. “Dipper? _...Mason?_ Mom, dad? _Anyone?!_ ” she kept calling out, her pace quickening, making her sweat even more. “Hello?! Anyone, please?! _ANYONE?!_ ”

She soon broke out into a run, trying to find an end to this vast field. “No… n-no, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening…” she spluttered out between heavy breaths. 

“ _ANYONE?! PLEASE!_ My name is Mabel Pines! I’m thirteen years old, and I’m lost! I need… I need someone! My pig, my brother, my parents, my Grunkles, _I don’t care!_ ”

She ran for what must have only been a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Soon, she had no choice but to stop - her chest was heaving from the pain, and her throat felt like it was trying to throw up a load of sticky air, that was just getting lodged in her windpipe. She couldn’t yell anymore, not without feeling her throat burn.

She fell to her knees, and felt that sting in her eyes again. This time she didn’t stop it - she could feel water flood her eyes and stream down her face. There was no-one out here. Nothing. Nothing but her, all by herself.

“P-please, someone… _don’t leave me alone…_ ”

She stayed down on the ground, sniffling, letting her tears form a puddle on the lifeless grass beneath her. With each tear, the puddle grew larger and larger - far larger than a single tear should have made it. She looked at her reflection in the overly-large puddle that had formed beneath her. Same red, puffed-up face, made shiny from all the waterworks. Then the reflection’s expression changed. It smiled. Its brow lowered, eyes narrowed - its face twisted from sadness to mischief, sadistic pleasure. Then it raised its hand and pointed down, in the direction of its chest.

Mabel obliged, thoughtlessly, looking down at her own chest. Her sweater had vanished, and in its place was a white t-shirt, with large letters reading ‘I HATE CATS’.

Then she shot up, feeling a blast of air chilling her damp face. Her gaze frantically darted around - the endless field was gone. She was back home, in her bed. Without hesitation, she threw the covers off, glancing down at her shirt. It was just her usual floppy disc-themed pyjamas. Just to be sure, she pinched herself on the neck.

“Ow!” she went, purposely going for a sensitive nerve. She sighed with relief, but that feeling was a short-lived one. Looking over at her phone, she checked the time - 1:30 in the morning.

Sniffling to get the last of the tearful snot out of her nose, she clambered out of bed, gingerly stepping out into the hall. Looking to her left, as she expected, she could see a faint light emerging from her brother’s bedroom. One thing Grunkle Ford seemed to have encouraged in him was his night owl schedule - Dipper would usually wait for the parents to fall asleep at around midnight before getting out of bed to write in his journal, or look up ultra-eldritch equations on the Weird web, or whatever other nerd things he was doing.

She lightly tapped on the door, and it didn’t take long for a tired Dipper to answer. Before he could say anything, Mabel pulled him in for a mighty hug. “Oh thank God, Dipper, you’re here… I love you, so, so much, I don’t ever want to stop hugging...”

“Wh- hey… I-I love you too…” he said, patting her on the back. “I kinda need you to release the hug, though.”

“No. Never. This is your life now.”

He stopped for a moment to inspect his sister’s reddened, puffed-up face. “Mabel, you’ve been crying,” he said, his smile turning to a concerned frown. “What’s going on? ...Did you have another nightmare?”

“Whaaaat?” she responded, releasing the hug and dismissively waving, proudly placing her hands on her hips. “Of course not! I just wanted to assure ya that… that I, uh…”

She sniffled again. “...Okay, yeah, I had a nightmare. ...Look, Waddles is okay, right?”

“What?”

“Waddles. He was sick, we went to see him at the vet’s, then what happened?”

“Oh, uh… yeah, Waddles is fine. Just a bug. They did say he… he probably won’t be able to come to Gravity Falls with us. But he’ll recover.”

“Oh...” Mabel went, her gaze falling to the floor. “...Did he chew on my shirt?”

“No, but he chewed on the vet’s coat.”

“Eh, good enough…” Mabel said, sighing. “Well, thanks for letting my dumb, stupid, leaky brain know again. Guess I should go back to bed and try meowing myself to sleep.”

“Alright. Night, Mabel!” Dipper called out as she turned to head back, but before he could shut the door, she stopped.

“...A-actually, wait, I wanna ask you something. Uh… can I come in?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sure,” Dipper answered, opening the door a bit more to let Mabel step inside.

As Dipper checked to see if the coast was clear of any newly-awakened parents, Mabel looked at the source of the light on her brother’s desk. He had his laptop open, bathing the entire desk in light.

She glanced up at Dipper’s notice board, seeing a huge collection of drawings arranged to look like some sort of… leaning tower of plates? With chopsticks suspended between them? Except the plates were dimensions? She was sure he’d explained all this to her at some point, but she must have zoned out. Or maybe she was just impressed by his artwork - just as she’d lately been indulging in ‘manly mannington’ hobbies like punching and strangling people, Dipper had taken to improving his art skills. Just never ask him to draw something cute, he’d invariably twist it into some creepy monster; and not the creepy-cute kind either, like a scorpion.

Then she finally glanced down at his laptop - she’d avoided it before now, it being so bright she was blinded for a moment, but now her vision had become adjusted enough for her to see it. Dipper had a word processor open, with…

“...’ _The Mystery of Trembleyville: a Screenplay by Mason Birch’_?” she said, reading off the page.

Dipper swooped in with frightening speed, slamming the laptop shut. “Forget you saw that! ...Secret. Secret stuff. ...Aaaand now I can’t see anything,” he said, very astutely, as shutting the laptop had indeed removed the one source of light in the room.

Fortunately for both of them, Mabel had thought to grab her phone when getting out of bed - pulling it out of her pocket, she switched it on, illuminating the pair of them. The shadow beneath Mabel’s face exposed the grin that had formed.

“Secret, _eeeeeeeh?_ ”

Dipper sighed. “C’mon, Mabel, you can’t fool me that easily. I know you’re still upset. Just ask me what you were gonna ask me.”

Mabel’s grin faltered. “Yeah, you’re right… but I still wanna know about your top secret junk.”

“Maybe later - and it’s not junk, it’s art. I-in a manner of speaking.”

Mabel rolled her eyes before leaning in a bit closer. “Okay, so… you remember last summer when I made that bet with Grunkle Stan where I had to run the shack for three days, and you kidnapped that… troll-goblin?”

“Gremloblin. I dunno how old it was, but ‘kidnap’ doesn’t seem like the right term.”

“Right, right, anyway, you said that if you look into its eyes, you see your worst nightmare. Did you look into its eyes? What’d you see?”

Dipper paused as he got into his seat, fidgeting about. “Huh… I don’t think I did look into its eyes. ...Its eyes were pretty small, it wasn’t actually that hard to avoid looking into them.”

“Oh… well, if you _had_ , what do you think you would’ve seen?”

“I don’t know! I was different back then, it probably woulda been something stupid like… Wendy and Robbie getting married. Or maybe getting a makeover from your friends. Which actually _did_ happen, and while certainly terrifying, it was far from the scariest thing that’s happened to me, so I can probably cross that off the list.”

“Heh, you liked it, you know you did!”

" _No_ , I really didn’t,” Dipper said, exasperatedly rubbing his birthmark. “Why are you asking me this now anyway?”

“Ehhh… no reason, I was just… thinking about it.”

“ _Mabel_ ” Dipper said, starting to sound more like a parent than a child.

“Okay, okay! It’s just… you know I looked into its eyes, right? When stupid, silly old Mabel gave it a five-minute break and it trashed the place, and you ran in to save the day?”

Dipper raised a finger, as though he was going to make a point about how it was his fault for thinking he could bring monsters in to begin with (‘which it totally was’ Mabel almost thought to herself, before quashing those thoughts. Bad, bad Mabel), but he stopped.

“...Huh, yeah, you did. I never did ask you what you’d seen. I probably woulda done if we weren’t, you know, preoccupied with the Shack getting trashed for the umpteenth time. How the hell is that building even still standing after that summer?”

“Maybe it’s alive?” Mabel speculated.

Dipper stopped to gaze at his noticeboard, rubbing his chin in contemplation. “Hmm, maybe, dear sister, maybe…”

“...Aren’t you gonna ask me now?”

“What? Oh, right, yeah… guess I shoulda taken the hint. So what did you see?”

Mabel sat down on the floor, cross-legged, her throat beginning to feel sore again, as she remembered her nightmare. “Well… it was only for a li’l, but… I saw _me_ , out in this big ol’ field. It was so big, I don’t think it ever ended. I was running and running, screaming for someone to find me. You, Grunkle Stan, Wendy, Soos, Waddles, mom and dad, the whole list of people! No-one came. There was nothing out there, just me, in this field. Alone.”

Once again, Mabel could feel that stinging sensation in her eye. Dipper’s expression mirrored hers. “Oh… aw, man, that… so your worst nightmare is being alone? ...Mabel, I’m so sorry. I-If I had known, I would have thought twice about Ford’s offer-”

“No! Don’t worry about that. You woulda just been making sacrifices for me again, and that sucks. It sucks you made so many sacrifices for me. Like giving up Wendy so I could have Waddles.”

“Aw, c’mon, Mabel, don’t say that. You love that pig! And anyway, we both know that me and Wendy would have gone nowhere. When you think about it, what happened was actually the optimal outcome!”

“That’s not the point!” Mabel snapped, slumping down so her face lay in her knee. She sniffled again, rubbing her eye. “You had no idea back then, that’s why you tried so hard to make things go right. Plus, humans live for, like, five billion times as long as pigs. Now Waddles could die because of me, and you’d have sacrificed for no reason!”

“Mabel, I told you, Waddles will be fine. He’s not going to die.”

“But what if he did? Then I’d have made another friend who leaves me alone, just like those stupid girls at school. And… I- I hate this, my brain is being all stupid, because I woulda been the same way if you stayed with Ford! Or… what if he and Stan crashed into a giant mermaid or something, or… or you got possessed by some dumb ghost and made to jump off a bridge?” she began to rattle off, her voice cracking.

“M-mabel… I... I don’t understand what you’re trying to say…” Dipper said, fidgeting again.

Mabel wiped another tear from her eye. “It’s… I’m gonna be alone, someday, I know it. I’m gonna be in that field for real. So why do I hate it so much? Why does everyone have to make sacrifices just to put it off? You can be alone just fine, right? Why can’t I?”

“I…” Dipper tried to say, his own voice beginning to crack a little - and it wasn’t just puberty squeak. “Mabel, I don’t like being alone, either. I don’t think anyone does. But… when you think about it, no-one’s ever really alone. It’s like, uh… on some of my Weirdness hunts when you weren’t around, I’ve seen things you woulda really liked. Like these little fluffball creatures that reproduced way too fast. I'm always thinking ‘Mabel would love this’, and just like that, it’s like you’re there, next to me.”

By now, Mabel was lying down on the floor, her phone resting atop her stomach. She sighed again. “Yeah, I guess… I’m real sorry about this, I know I’m being stupid and making zero sense. Wendy was right, this whole ‘being a teenager’ poop is overrated. I’m prob’ly just bummed out ‘cause Waddles can’t come with us to Gravity Falls, all ‘cause I fed him a death burger or something.”

Dipper leaned forward on his desk, resting his own head on his hand. “Yeah. If it’s any consolation, I’m not too happy the Grunkles aren’t gonna be there, either. I know they’re following up a big lead in Australia right now, and they promised they’d be back in time for our birthday, but… well, we both know plans can change. Even when there isn’t any danger of an apocalypse happening. ...I kinda wish we got to travel with them. I love Gravity Falls, it’s basically my home now, but… you know, there’s a whole _world_ of Weirdness out there. Even Ford has barely scratched the surface.”

Mabel didn’t say anything for now, she took a moment to let her head cool down again, let her eyes dry out, and stare at the dark ceiling for good measure. She’d known about the Grunkles’ situation for weeks, since sea travel takes basically forever. 

They were off hunting down ‘Weirdness Hotspots’, places like Gravity Falls - something about the dimensions of the multiverse being like a tower and they trickle down in certain places? ...Sorta like what one of her alternate counterparts told her back in Dimension MAB-3L - all the alternate versions of herself being drawn to each other, like potato chip crumbs at the bottom of the bag. It didn’t make any sense, she’d seen the multiverse, and it looked nothing like a tower - it looked like a huge load of nothing with globby portal bubbles everywhere, and it left a fruity taste on her tongue, like bubblegum! Apparently that was just the space between dimensions and they sometimes leak through the ‘floors’?

“Ugh…” she groaned, as she sat back up, rubbing her head. Thinking about all this dimension stuff gave her a headache. At least it took her mind off that fake nightmare, pulling tricks on her brain, making her think she was… that _other_ Mabel.

_‘You think you’ve defeated me, but I’m part of you! Every selfish choice you make, that’s being just like me!’_

She looked back at Dipper - even when she was lying here, miserable, her face still red, somehow him leaning on the desk, staring glumly at the wall seemed to dwarf it. She always felt his big-brain nerd concerns were way out of her league - he was on a whole other level. Here she was, obsessing over being lonely, meanwhile he was probably working on mapping out a… multidimensional bus line or something. If he was anything like Ford, he could become the most important person in history. Yet she was barging into his room at nearly two in the morning, forcing him to listen to her cry over stupid stuff. Maybe he _did_ need room to breathe.

She glanced up at Dipper’s notice board again - she saw something else next to his dimensional diagram. A map of the world, with ‘X’s scattered about, including a big ol’ X slapped right on top of Oregon - the rest of them were in other countries, most of which she’d probably never heard of, let alone knew how to spell or pronounce. She figured they represented possible Weirdness Hotspots. They all had question marks next to them, except three - the one over Gravity Falls, one in the arctic circle - Iceland? Greenland Junior? - and one slap-bang in the middle of Australia, with _three_ circles around it.

“Dipper… if you wanna spend this summer investigating with Stan and Ford instead, that’s okay.”

Her brother looked back at her, raising a brow - intrigued, but also confused. “What? No… no, of course I’m not doing that! I wanna see Soos and Wendy again, too! Besides, even if I wanted to, I dunno if they could even afford an extra mouth to feed on their outback expedition. Plus, I’d probably need to pay for my own plane ticket; and as for mom and dad, heading one state over for a few months is one thing, heading to an entirely different country on the other side of the pacific is another thing entirely.”

Mabel paused, considering her words. “Yeah, you’re right, I dunno why I thought you’d want to. ...Guess I figured you needed some breathing room, without me holding you back.”

“Mabel? _No_ , let’s not even go there,” Dipper said, sounding much firmer than before, as he stood up from his seat and knelt down to be on eye level with his sister. “You know I don’t think of you that way, and if I ever do, I… wouldn’t _want_ to become that Dipper. If that Dipper came back in time with one of Blendin’s stolen Time Tapes and started talking about you like that, I’d punch him in the face,” he said, miming doing just that to the air. “Listen - if Stan and Ford ever have an opening for me on their crew, you’re coming too. That’s a fact. If they can’t have you, they’re not having me.”

Mabel was silent for a good few moments, processing her brother’s words. “Really? You sure?”

“Were you even _at_ the fight where you suplexed an MMA champ? Believe me, you’re not holding _anyone_ back.”

Wiping the last few crusty remains of her earlier tears from her face, Mabel smiled once more, and pulled Dipper in for another hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOLU SPML NPCLZ FVB SLTVUZ, ZAYHW AOVZL SLTVUZ AV FVBY MPZAZ HUK WBUJO WLVWSL DPAO AOLT. UVD AOLF OHCL SLTVU QBPJL PU AOLPY LFLZ!


	2. Townsville? Is That Even A Real Place?

“Nngrhh… n-no, _get out…_ GET OUT OF HIS BODY!”

Ford shot up from the desk he’d fallen asleep on, instinctively holding his hands out in front of him. He looked around the room about five times, repeating his thoughts every time, as though he was weeding out any internal inconsistencies. He was in his cabin, on the _Stan O’ War II_. He could tell because everything was rocking around on the water. He’d been doing some last-minute reviews of his notes before they arrived in Australia. He’d forgotten to drink coffee. He’d fallen asleep.

Lowering his hands and relaxing his stance, he looked down, readjusting his crooked glasses. He’d gotten drool all over his papers, and in his nightmare fright, the inside of his shirt was now unbearably sticky from sweat. An unusually high degree of sweat, even considering the heat. He’d stopped wearing his long coat weeks ago; to his dismay, as long coats are, as his great-niece would put it, ‘his thing’. Still insisted on shirts with neck-covering tops, though. If they knew about the tattoo, they’d understand.

Ford had to admit that sometimes his personal hygiene took a backseat to his work, but _this_ was too much, even for him. Wiping the drool off his papers - thankfully they were still legible after that - he quickly made his way to the head, pushing off his suspenders and taking off his shirt. It was only after he started washing at the sink and he ran his hands all over his torso that he realized how familiar this all was to him. While not exactly emaciated, he was practically a bag of bones compared to his pudgy brother. He wasn’t sure if he’d eaten _anything_ yesterday, or the day before. When you’re a multidimensional fugitive for 30 years, you learn how to make the most of meager nourishment, he supposed. That wasn’t even getting into all the scars he’d accumulated. _That_ was familiar. 

...No, he needed to keep his perspective straight. He wasn’t trapped between dimensions, fleeing from Bill, he was on the _Stan O’ War_ and Bill had been shattered into pieces. He had people looking out for him, both on the boat and off. ...He wasn’t sure if he’d _ever_ get used to that.

Brushing that aside, he finished washing, freshening up with some deodorant, and spraying down his shirt for good measure before he put it back on. Knowing that today was going to be a busy one, he wasted no time - making himself a quick coffee, he headed up onto the helm as he began to drink that much-needed caffeine.

It was bright out, only a few scattered clouds in the sky. Just as he suspected, ahead of the bow, he saw land - a reasonably large port city, with the droning of other ships’ horns and the squawking of seagulls punctuating the moment.

“Mornin’, Sixer,” he heard Stanley say from the wheel. Unlike Ford, Stan had the foresight to pack some extra clothes - today he had gone full ‘tropical’, with a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Something he was clearly thinking of as well, when he looked back at him. “Geez, have you been out for a swim? You haven’t been this sweaty since tenth grade. ...I think. Or maybe I made that up, garbage memory an’ all.”

“No, you’re probably right,” Ford answered quickly, dodging the question. Fortunately, Stan seemed too focused on scratching the back of his head to press him any further. Stan wasn’t that much greater than he was when it came to self-maintenance, while miles out at sea, with only each other for company; his brother’s hair had grown out into a mullet, which he treated almost as a fate worse than death. ...Wasn’t hard to imagine why.

_‘You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a mullet, Stanford!’_

“You know,” Ford said, “if you’re having hair trouble, I learned how to cut my own hair when I was menaced by beard cubs. I could try chopping that off for you.”

“Blegh, no offence, but you saying you’d ‘chop’ it off does _not_ fill me with confidence. Nah, this mess needs a _delicate_ touch, yanno?”

Ford rolled his eyes. “By that, you mean you want an excuse to meet an attractive young hairdresser?”

Stan gasped with faux shock, dramatically placing a hand on his heart. “ _Brother_ , I am ashamed of you! What sorta skeevy old man d’ya take me for? Nah, nah, attractive _old_ hairdresser! I learned a long time ago that I can’t be attracted to a girl I can’t relate to!”

“Yes, indeed,” Ford said, moving closer to the window - he wanted to hurry this topic along, too, even if he had no reason to anymore. The last time the topic of girls and dating came up, Ford had mentioned that time he dated a Siren, which only worked out because he was somehow immune to its supernatural charms, and then he let it slip that he just wasn’t attracted to _anyone_ , period. Stan was understanding, and had stopped making jokes about his inability to get dates since then; but he still kept expecting one. Old habits.

“...Anyway, Fordsy, I been meanin’ to ask,” Stanley said, changing the subject, “this lead we’re chasin’ down under - you’re absolutely sure it’s solid, right?”

Ford raised a brow in confusion at this sudden line of questioning. “Well… yes. I cross-referenced all the reports I could find - second-hand accounts from multiple time periods, gravitational anomalies, temporal shifts, electromagnetic frequency shifts, et cetera, et cetera - with the data I- _we_ already collected in Gravity Falls and in Iceland. I’m _positive_ that Coiled Springs is a solid lead.”

“Right, right… I’m just makin’ sure you’re not basin’ all o’ this on the ramblings of some cyber-huxter. Yanno most old folks like us, we’re easy prey for these new-age techno-scams. Hell, even I once fell for the classic ‘Nigerian Prince’ scam, first time I had to email someone. It’s ridiculous - there’s no money in being royalty no more! This ain’t castle times or whatever! If they were _smart_ , they’d claim to be a world-class CEO - like me!”

Ford’s confused look remained unchanged, and he began to rub his chin. He had to admit that Stanley was right to be skeptical - Ford had learned the hard way that second-hand witness accounts of Weirdness should never be the sole instrument of determining where Weirdness is actually going on. Now, with the internet letting anyone claim to have seen some Weird phenomena and spread rumours to millions of people with the click of a button, that held true more than ever. For every account of genuine Weirdness, there were probably two-dozen scammers running a hoax - Stanley should know, he _was_ (and arguably still is) one of those scammers.

That being said, something still nagged at Ford’s mind. “Stanley, why did you wait until now to ask me this? If you really thought we were wasting our time coming here, you could have asked after we left Reykjavik and saved us a month and a half.”

“Well, ya see, that’s kinda the thing. Somethin’ I hadn’t considered back when I had the whole ‘international treasure hunting’ idea when we were kids, sea travel takes for-freakin’- _ever_ . We could be investigating this Coiled Springs place for months - and the kids are s’posed to be going back to Gravity Falls in a couple weeks. There’s no guarantee we could make it back to ‘em in time for their birthday, even _if_ we finish our business here in record time. So with that in mind, I just wanna make sure it’s worth it, yanno?”

Ford had known this was on Stan’s mind, of course - he was always the more sentimental of the two of them; and there was once a time that Ford probably would have called him foolish because of it. Then Ford remembered, he _had_ almost been willing to give in to Bill when the kids’ lives were at stake, and he helped Stan recover his memory even though he had no obligation to - he was no stranger to ‘sentimentality’, himself.

“Hmm, yes, that’s…” he stopped, considering his words, “it is… a shame. It’s _highly_ regrettable. I wish it didn’t have to be that way.”

“Who said it does?”

Ford’s eyes almost immediately locked onto Stan’s when he said that - it was practically a reflex response, as were the words that spilled out of his mouth. “Stanley, you’re not suggesting we cancel the search, are you?”

“What?! No, no, of course I’m not! Geez, relax!” Stan said, defensively holding up his palms. Ford had to stand back a bit, glancing over at the floor with embarrassment.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry. ...I guess I still haven’t changed as much as I had hoped.”

“Heh, you and me both, Sixer. _Buuuut_ , what I was _actually_ thinkin’ of - an’ you’re gonna hate it, you’re gonna think I’m crazier than usual, but hear me out - what if we ask the kids to come to us?”

Ford looked up, and began to rub his chin again. “You mean… have Dipper and Mabel personally assist us with the search?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that! I mean, think about it - you wanted Dipper to be your apprentice, right? An’ that didn’t work out exactly how you wanted, but he basically _is_ \- so more practical work experience can only help ‘im! An’ as for Mabel, well, she might not be so into the nerd side o’ things, but she’ll prob’ly get to see some cute koalas an’ maybe punch ‘em in the nose if they get all uppity with us, an’ she’d love that! An’ hey, with two extra pairs o’ hands, maybe we could finish the search in half the time, leavin’ us free to relax in Gravity Falls for the rest o’ summer!”

Ford glanced up at the ceiling now, folding his arms, and continued to think. On the one hand, he had realized his motivations for wanting Dipper to be his apprentice in the first place were less than altruistic - he hadn’t thought so much about the boy’s future as he had about preserving his own scientific legacy; and there was a bit of psychological projection in there, too, since he was still on less-than-great terms with Stanley at the time. Nonetheless, Dipper seemed to have his heart in it. If he truly wanted to be his apprentice, who was he to say no?

Then there was Mabel, the girl he’d underestimated so much. She may not share all the same interests as him, but they have a lot in common; she has an artistic mind, she wears her weirdness on her sleeve (sometimes literally), and they’ve both had some struggles with self-centredness - and both had been manipulated by Bill because of it. But unlike him and his petty 10-year grudge over an accident, Mabel was a well of forgiveness. After all, she forgave _him_ for thinking of her as a burden. She deserved better.

Still… he wasn’t sure if inviting them along on the search for Coiled Springs was a good idea. At least in Gravity Falls, he’d spent the best part of a decade documenting its exact brand of anomalies. This was unknown territory. From what he understood, even _normal_ Australian wildlife was deadly to the inattentive.

Finally, he looked back at Stanley - who, unusually, was quietly and patiently waiting for his response.

“I… maybe. It _could_ work. I’ll consider it, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

* * *

Well, looks like it’s a guarantee!

After all, Stan knew better than anyone - stubbornness is a Pines family virtue. This was especially the case for his nerd brother; if there was even the slightest whiff of something wrong with an idea, he’d shut it down. So him ‘considering’ the idea basically translated to ‘yes, but I won’t say so until later’. Whatever, it was good enough!

About ten minutes after they’d had that conversation, they finally docked at a marina in the city of Townsville, Queensland. ‘Townsville? Is that even a real place?’ Stan had asked, but Ford assured him it was. Whatever, a town is a town. Maybe next they’d go visit ‘Citytopiopolis’. They’d managed to snag a decent price for docking, though it would have been even lower if the suit they had to talk to was willing to haggle; Stan even offered to throw in a little statue of a Viking dwarf he’d picked up in a gift shop back in Iceland, but no dice. Business was so impersonal nowadays.

Ford insisted on staying on the _Stan O’ War_ to look after his Big Cabinet of Dangerous Science Crap - contained all the Weird junk he’d been collecting over the past 40 years, including his Infinity Belt, his Alien Adhesive, a couple of those stupid thousand-year lightbulbs and a bunch of other stuff he’d never even seen before. Apparently he didn’t trust Soos enough to keep them safe at the Shack, which - okay, maybe that was a smart call. Stan trusted him with the business, but he wasn’t sure he could even trust _himself_ with Ford’s cursed castoffs. In any case, Stan’s task was to go find them an RV so they could pick up their stuff and get going.

But really - what was the rush? If they were gonna ask the kids along, that’d speed up their investigation - that gives them time to spare here in… _Townsville_ . Plus, they’d been cooped up on a ship for the best part of a year, and it’d been a long time since Stan had had a proper summer vacation in a suitably warm, summer-y locale. Hey, for Ford it may be the first vacation he’s had since… well, _ever._

Stan sauntered along the Townsville waterfront, with a grin on his face, making an effort to appear confident in his stride as onlookers glanced at him. His memories of a good chunk of his life when he was by himself were still spotty, but he remembered visiting exotic locales in other countries before. As he looked around, with a selection of mostly white, flat-roofed stores, towers and cafes on one side, and a bunch of palm trees and a huge, overcrowded beach on the other, the Australian sun blazing down on him, he came to a conclusion - this isn’t nearly as exotic as he was expecting. He’d been to Miami before, and this is a lot like Miami - big beach, big marina, so hot and humid you have an equal chance of dying from dry-drowning or spontaneous combustion (though the ‘humidity’ might just be his own sweat), and the locals all speak with funny accents. The only thing different was that there weren't so many fellow old people to make him feel at home, even if all the old people he met in Miami were stodgy losers and sell-outs.

Still, he wouldn’t let that get in the way of his confident stride; he had to make a good first impression on the locals! Just as long as he didn’t have to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary, _that’s_ when things tended to go downhill. Or he found something worth stealing.

His hand raised to scratch the back of his stupid mullet again. He must have done it a hundred times now. He swears it’s not even intentional, his body just refuses to have a mullet. The locals were starting to notice, too… kinda clashed with the confidence thing. Maybe he should have taken Ford up on his offer. ...Nah, he might have lasered a crop circle into his skull.

He decides to chance it. He flagged down the next person he walked next to, which turned out to be some surfer-looking guy about half his age, in a tank top and trucker cap with… some kinda tree on it?

“‘Ey buddy!” he said, his confident look almost immediately evaporating. “Where can I find a barber in this town...sville? If I hafta spend another day with this stupid mullet on my head, I might cause a diplomatic incident.”

The man stopped and turned to him, with a - thankfully - blank expression. “Uh, I dunno exactly where. There’s prob’ly a buncha hairdressers ‘round the arcade, if you head back towards Wickham street an’ move onto Flinders, then-”

Stan held up a firm hand. “No no, you misunderstand me. I said a _barber_ , not a hairdresser. I don’t need this mess styled into a fabulous curl or nothin’, I need it sliced off with _extreme prejudice_!”

The man maintained his blank expression. “...They’re the same thing, mate.”

Stan stopped for a moment, with his mouth slightly agape. “They are? ...Huh. That a local expression, or…?”

“Yeah, nah, it’s… like that everywhere.”

“Wow. Okay. I seriously did not know this.”

He wasn’t lying, either, for once. Back in Glass Shard Beach, his dad always insisted he go to the _barber_ , not the hairdresser. Hairdressers were for girls. He’d never needed to ask where the _barber_ was while living in Gravity Falls, he knew where it was. Not once had anyone ever told him where the _hairdresser_ is when he asked for the _barber_. He wasn’t sure if times had changed or if it always had been this way and Filbrick had just tainted his mind again. 

...Bah, who cares? A haircut is a haircut.

As he followed the man’s instructions to head back the way he came, he did notice the architecture was getting a _little_ more exotic. Less Miami, more New Orleans. Then again, they stole their architecture from the French. And it was still the Deep South. Which was odd, because he’s in the _north_ of Australia. ...Why is he even thinking about this? This self-introspection junk is dumb. He needed to find something interesting, and fast, before he started pondering the meaning of life or something.

Ah, here’s something. There was a hat stand on the side of the street. Ordinarily not very interesting, but he could see they had the same kind of hat that guy was wearing. The one with a tree on it. He got close and stopped to inspect it. ...Dipper likes hats with trees on, right? And if he was gonna be coming here, he’d need to replace his pine tree hat that Wendy stole. No way was he wearing that old fur hat in this heat. He looked at the price tag. _...Five dollars?!_

Without even thinking about it, Stan turned to face across the street and dramatically pointed at the sun, gasping loudly for all to hear.

“OH MY GIDDY AUNT, _A COSMIC BALL OF FIERY DEATH!_ ”

“Eh?” he could hear various locals mutter as they turned to face the distraction. Stan quickly swiped the tree hat and ran off down the street.

“OI! Come back ‘ere, you _bloody bogan_!” he could hear someone behind him call out, followed by the sound of rustling and footsteps. Nuts, he’d lost his edge. Shoulda just taken it quietly. ...And what the hell’s a ‘bogan’?

Glancing behind him for a moment, he could see a couple of locals with snarls on their faces chasing after him. He’d acquired a fair amount of distance on them already, but he knew his old man horsepower wouldn’t hold up to their young people endurance. Plus, some people ahead of him seem to have taken notice of the situation. 

One man tried to lunge at him, forcing Stan to dodge, hopping over his outstretched leg and bumping into a woman, making her drop her ice-cold coffee all over the sidewalk. He could hear a yelp and a crumple behind him, making him wish he was able to look back and see what sort of hilarious slapstick he’d just created. Unfortunately, he had to keep his eye on the road he was about to run into.

Stuffing his stolen hat inside his shirt, he remembered - he had a special technique for crossing busy city streets when being chased down! All you had to do was step forward, and… and…

Damn, that was a _lot_ of cars. How did the technique go again? Might have been another mind-wipe casualty there.

Time for Plan B - don’t cross the road at all, just turn right. ...Why didn’t he just do that in the first place?

Turning right, he continued running - and immediately regretted it, noticing the police station on the other side of the street to his left. “OH, _COME ON!_ ” he yelled, sounding hoarse as he felt his old, worn-out heart begin to strain against his ribs.

It was at this moment that he almost began to regret stealing that hat - _almost_ \- but just as he could feel his legs getting heavier, he caught, in the corner of his eye, a barber’s pole hanging outside a building to his right.

“YES! YES! THAT IS _EXACTLY_ WHAT I NEED AT THIS PRECISE MOMENT!” he felt the need to announce. Making yet another snap decision to add to the list, he opened the door and ducked inside, hugging an interior wall, and waited to see those pursuers come running by. It wasn’t long before stopping that he bent over and begun to heave, clutching his chest.

“Woah, y’alright there, mate? You’re not lookin’ too good…” he heard a coarse, female voice speak up. Right, of course, there’d be other people here. _Obviously._ He grunted with irritation, slapping his forehead, spraying sweat droplets everywhere.

Coming to his senses, he turned to his right to examine where exactly he was. He was in a barber’s - or hairdresser’s, or whatever - but it looked like a relatively small-scale op. Kind of a counterculture theme going on, judging from the predominantly black walls with some faux graffiti scattered about, framed caricatures of punk rockers he’d never heard of, and some of their music blasting over the sound system. He _was_ just about to write it off as a new-age hipster imitation until he saw the woman who had just spoken to him.

She certainly looked like she fit in here, but not in the way Stan was expecting. She was a mature woman - not as old as him, but definitely old enough to have a kid - clearly works out a lot, and appeared to be of foreign ancestry - East Asian, definitely, he didn’t want to assume which country (and yes, he was well aware that _he_ was foreign around here too, but shut yer yaps). She definitely had an air of old-school punk, with her ratty clothes, tattoos, piercings, and weird asymmetrical hairstyle that left half her head shaved off.

“...’Ello? Do I need to call an ambulance or what?” she asked, with a worried expression that clashed with her overall look.

“Oh! Nah, I’m… fine, just gotta… wait it out…” Stan gasped out, as he decided to straighten up, stretching - and heard a few ‘pop’ sounds all over his back as he did so. “AH! Ugh, I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“Too old for what?” the punk lady asked, her expression almost immediately turning from worried to unimpressed.

Damn, she was onto him! He glanced at the door - he could still run, but… no, his heart might give out. And anyway, the whole reason he came down here was so he could get a haircut. Preferably from someone who knew how to handle old man hair, which this lady… might? Assuming she _did_ work here.

He took a moment to look even further to his right - they were the only people in the building. So yes, she almost certainly did work here. Probably.

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest with ya,” Stan said, dishonestly. “It’s this stupid mullet. Some jerks out on the street didn’t approve. They chased after me, callin’ me a ‘bogan!’ Whatever that even means! Me, a defenceless old man! And a clueless tourist, at that! Honestly, young people these days, am I right?”

Stan was expecting sympathy, or naked disbelief, but what he got instead was a thoughtful look, as the lady examined the grey mullet on his head. She soon folded her arms and nodded at his remarks. “No bloody wonder, you _do_ look like a bogan.”

“Yeah, I’m a dumb American, I still have no idea what that means.”

“You _don’t_ wanna know,” she replied, matter-of-factly. Then, before Stan could even process what was happening, she leaned in very close, to lift some individual strands of his hair and _sniff_ at it, and even picked something out, like she was picking fleas from a monkey’s head. Stan reflexively tensed up, if only because _anyone_ would in this situation.

“You a sailor, too? Ya smell like heartbreak an’ fish an’ chips. Found some salt up there,” she said as she stood back, holding up one such granule of sea salt she’d picked out of his hair.

For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Stan felt proud all of a sudden, and he retained his earlier confident grin. “Well, funny you should say that, ‘cause I _am_ a sailor! Matter o’ fact, me an’ my brother have spent the last year sailin’ around the world, tryin’ to find-...” he was about to say ‘dimensional weird science stuff’, but he figured Poindexter might not be too happy if he blabbed about Weirdness to a lady he’d just met - no matter how flattering she was. ...Not that this lady was flattering. Which wasn’t a bad thing! Just a neutral thing. An observation.

After an uncomfortably long pause, he cleared his throat. “Me an’ my brother, we’re… _international treasure hunters!_ It’s kind of a childhood project we dreamed of runnin’, but then, uh… life happened, an’ we had to wait ‘til retirement. But it’s happenin’ now, for sure!”

“Mm-hmm, I see, I see…” the lady said, apparently intrigued. “So ya won’t mind if I charge triple?”

“What?!” Stan blurted out. “No, no, we haven’t… _actually_ found any treasure yet. I mean, we _would_ have found some, but we had to give it back, because of… _reasons…_ ”

Hmm, those were some shrewd business tactics, there… he had to up his game.

“...In fact, we’re pretty much broke right now. Didn’t actually know this before, but apparently gold is some kinda… _rare_ metal,” he said, drawing upon actual life disappointments for the proper impact.

“Ah, good - I also accept payment in watches, clothes, indentured servitude, an’ any stolen goods you might have,” she replied, counting off each item on her fingers.

“Eh?” Stan went, before remembering what he was hiding under his shirt - and how it was leaving a conspicuous bulge there that she probably noticed. Ugh.

“Stolen goods? I, uh… geez, you accuse _all_ your customers of theft?”

“Mate, I’m not an idiot,” she said, “you came runnin’ in here like a boy racer ‘bout to choke on his own exhaust fumes, hiding somethin’ under your shirt there. Either you stole somethin’ or there’s a killer on the loose, an’ if it was the latter I assume they’d already be here.”

Stan's face twisted into a look of _distinct_ displeasure now. Not quite anger, but definitely getting there. What _was_ this lady? Was she secretly some truth fairy in disguise? He hadn’t been figured out by a stranger this quickly since those stupid, dorky Sibling Brothers when they were kids. Long-lost relative, maybe?

Stan stepped forward, grunting. He revealed his ill-gotten hat-based loot, and made a big show of airing it out. “Okay, fine! Maybe I stole _one_ little hat! So what?! It’s a present for my great-nephew! There were about twenty-three others on that rack, anyway, who’s gonna care about one?! They shoulda thought about this before charging five… dollarydoos or whatever passes for legal tender down under!” he rambled, not really sure where he was going with this, nor did he really care.

The lady sighed and shook her head, but weirdly, she also… smiled a little? “Mate, I don’t care. Look, I’m almost as old as you, I know what yer deal is. You’re lookin’ for a rush, to make up for lost time. I get that all the bloody time. I’m no stranger to the odd ‘requisitioned trinket’, meself. Plus gambling away an’ entire month’s salary, an’ drivin’ a bike a dozen miles over the speed limit through a crowded Thai market. That sorta thing.”

Stan slumped, his expression changing again, this time to a blank stare. “Oh. Well…” and hearing that eased the blow to his ego from being found, so back to self-important confidence it is! “I weren’t lyin’ about this bein’ a present for my great-nephew, though. Or the sailin’ thing. Or the international treasure hunting thing.”

“No worries,” the lady said, “an’ I weren’t lyin’ about you lookin’ like a bogan, neither. Now, d’ya want me to chop that off or what?”

Stan cleared his throat, apparently trying to expel the last of the social awkwardness unbecoming of a man like him. He didn’t even care she said she’d ‘chop’ his hair off like Ford - hell, he kinda welcomed it now. “Yes, yes I would like that very much! The whole reason I came out here was to find a barber, and- actually, lemme ask ya somethin’. Is this a barber or a hairdresser? Is there even a difference? I need to know because a man on the way here completely shattered my worldview by bringing this up. And my worldview is _not_ easy to shatter.”

The lady shrugged. “I dunno. I think they’re the same. ‘Course, when I was a girl, my mum used to make sure I went to the hairdresser. Only blokes go to the barber’s.”

“Hmm…” Stan glanced at his reflection in the window, rubbing his chin, “...If guys like me can get their hair ‘dressed’ now… yanno, I _was_ just gonna ask for the cheapest cut available, but screw it. Do somethin’ stupid to my hair. _Surprise me_.”

Suddenly, the lady’s face grew an almost manic grin, that called to mind Mabel whenever the topic of boys came up. “Oh, I can surprise you, alright! By the way, what’d you say your name was, again?”

“Oh! The name’s Stanf- ley. Stanley Pines. ...Just call me Stan,” he answered with a casual hand wave, the irony of this situation not escaping his notice.

“Jo Zhou,” the muscular, middle-aged punk said, as she unholstered a pair of scissors from her hip like it was an old west six-shooter. Even spun it around a few times. Dangerous. But cool. At least as far as Stan was concerned. 

“An’ yes, I _did_ stab myself when learnin’ how to do that. _Worth it_.”

* * *

 _“Today, my brother and I have finally arrived in_ **_A_** _ustralia to begin our search for the lost town of Coiled Springs,”_ Ford said to himself as he wrote in his latest journal - ‘Journal 4 - World Edition’, he was dubbing it. _“Shortly before arrival, I had that nightmare again. I suppose it speaks much of Bill’s power - even in death, he torments me and my fami_ ** _l_** _y,”_ he continued. Dipping his quill into his well of kraken’s ink - because you can’t beat the classics, damnit - he stopped to think about his next sentence.

 _“The thought has occurred to me…”_ he continued, _“was Bill ever his own entity? Or was he merely a literal manifestation of our nightmares? The primal fears of humani_ ** _t_** _y, as a species, since its humble beginnings? Perhaps even more than humanity. His realm was the Nightmare Realm, after all. P_ ** _e_** _rhaps that name is no mere coincidence. Perhaps his twisted rationale to free us from logic was born from our fears and insecurities about reality - perhaps he merely wished to ‘free’ us from reality itself. Or perhaps he loved us for creating him, and just had a very dest_ ** _r_** _uctive, counterintuitive way of showing that love, and wished to be with his creators, let us become part of the nightmare he so treasured. Perhaps he will never truly be_ **_g_** _one for this very reason...”_

He stopped to think again, glancing up at the ceiling. ...There was that churning feeling in his gut again. There was something deeply wrong with this current line of thought, but he couldn’t quite figure out _what_ , exactly. Then he considered that gut feeling - his gut was empty. Was the stomach connected to the brain after all? Because he was hungry, his mind became hungry for answers?

“Agh!” he grunted, shaking his head, before returning to his writing. _“Or maybe Bill was just an ins_ ** _a_** _ne demon who tried to destroy the world, and all this rationalizing is a waste of time, born from the fact that I probably haven’t eaten for forty-eigh_ ** _t_ ** _hours! But that’s the problem - I can’t stop thinking about him. I worry I’ll spend the rest of my life clearing up all his loose ends; I can only hope that, if he WAS somehow responsible for the disappearance of Coiled Springs 130 years ag_ ** _o_ ** _, that it was a clean interdimensional transition, and not a tangled-up, Weirdmageddon-scale rift. Such a rift, with neither the containment of a Weirdness barrier, nor the calculating mind of Bill himself behind it, could spread out of cont_ ** _r_** _ol with only a minor stimulus.”_

Well, that was heavy. Ford let his quill fall from his grip as he tried to relax. He _really_ needed to relax, he knew, before he got too agitated thinking about that accursed triangle demon. He got up out of his chair to stretch. Maybe he just needed something to eat. Who knows when he’d next get the chance?

Closing his journal for now, he made his way over to the kitchen and began to rummage around the refrigerator and the various supply cupboards. After about two minutes, his haul was… disappointing. He found a dozen cans of Brown Meat™, half a loaf of stale bread, a tipped-over box of Cardboard Flakes cereal with a huge hole in the bottom (along with evidence that some shipboard rats had been using the box as a toilet), an expired carton of orange juice, and a couple unlabelled blue soda cans with a post-it attached, reading ‘FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY! ~STANFORD’ - so he didn’t want to mess with those right now. He’d been hoping they still had some leftover fried kraken, but no such luck.

Ford sighed, closing the fridge. He wasn’t a huge Brown Meat™ enthusiast, but he figured he could probably make a serviceable sandwich out of this - he just needed a condiment of some kind, to take the edge off that ‘apocalicious’ blandness that left one feeling empty inside - ‘your hunger’s been barely satiated, enjoy it while it lasts!’

He looked at the clock on the wall - it wasn’t even noon yet. Stanley would probably still be a while. Ford _wanted_ to go off on an excursion of his own to get some more supplies, maybe get a new shirt while he’s at it, but… he couldn’t leave his cabinet here. If there was even the _slightest_ chance some random dockworker could stumble onto it, _anyone_ could steal it. The thought of an untrained civilian with no exposure to the paranormal messing around with his Alien Adhesive, the Memory Eraser Ray, or, Tesla forbid, the _Quantum Destabilizer_ was unfathomable! Chaos! Destruction! Possibly the end of the world! All because Ford was a little hungry. No. He had to tough it out. Brown Meat™ on stale bread. A real fugitive’s lunch.

He turned back to the table where he’d gathered all the tins. Then he leaned against it and stared at them. He waited. Narrowed his eyes. Waited some more. Fidgeted a bit. Tried looking around the room, only to return to the tins. Frowned. Waited. Fidgeted some more. Felt that churning in his stomach again.

...He had to go out.

Five minutes later, he heaved as he painstakingly pushed his cabinet off the boat’s docking ramp and onto solid ground, tensing up so as to minimize the risk of the cabinet falling into the sea. The cabinet wasn’t the only thing with him - on the top he also had a cooler that Stanley had insisted on bringing along - and Ford was glad he did. This cooler could separate life from death if anyone tried to mug him.

Finally pushing it onto the concrete, he stopped to stand back up, feeling a distinct ‘pop’ sound as he did so. “ _Ow_ … now I know how Stanley feels. No spring chicken anymore…” he muttered to himself as he rubbed his strained spinal column.

It was then that he heard an electronic ‘whirr’ sound, the distinct drone of a motor. His eye drawn towards it, he saw a local cargo handler driving slowly down the dock in some kind of… miniature crate carrier? Like a forklift but smaller? The fellow did look pretty cramped on there. But most importantly, the ‘cargo bay’, miniscule as it was, was the perfect size for his cabinet; it even came with safety straps!

Rubbing his hands together, Ford stepped forward and waved at the man. 

‘G’DAY MATE, THAT’S ONE BUNGERS RIDE! OI’D BE RIGHT CHUFFED IF OI COULD SCAB THAT UTE OFF YOUR HANDS BEFORE SOME DRONGO GETS IN THE WAY AND MAKES A RIGHT BINGLE!’

...Was what Ford _almost_ said to the poor fellow, but he managed to stay his tongue. There was a _reason_ his brother always insisted on doing the talking when in a foreign country. When they took that detour to Ireland on the way back from Iceland - not to be confused - the _first_ thing Ford had said was a twee ‘top o’ the mornin’ to ye, laddie!’. He was lucky the person he was talking to was a recent immigrant who couldn’t speak English.

He cleared his throat and waved again. “Greetings, friend! Is there a possibility I may be able to borrow your… electric… miniature forklift?” he asked, pointing at the vehicle. Its driver stopped the vehicle and looked back at him, without a word, just a baffled expression.

Ford continued, “I’m a… humble old man with a… _box…_ full of important... _stuff_ that I can’t say what it is, but I have to take it with me everywhere, no exception! But I can’t leave it on this boat, I have to go... _shopping_ forrrr… _dentures_ , and, ah… prune juice. ...They still make that, right?”

He tried his best fake smile, but the concerned upwards tilt of his brows betrayed it. ...Stanley was always the far better liar.

The cargo handler stared at him some more, for a good half-a-minute or so. Then he shrugged.

“Eh, I don’t see why not. Go nuts.”

Then he left, mumbling something to himself about it being his break. Ford was almost stunned at how easy that was, but he had no time to waste. He heaved his cabinet onto the cargo bay, along with Stanley’s cooler, strapped them down, and clambered into the driver’s seat… which was much smaller than it looked. He was less ‘sitting’ in it, more like balancing on it, with his knees sticking out the sides.

“Onward!” he declared as he slammed down on the accelerator, and the electric motor whirred into life, sending his new transport careening forth at an ear-splitting, re-entry-causing… 3 miles an hour! Or 4.82 in metric measurements! ...Okay, so Ford could easily _walk_ faster than this, but keeping the cabinet safe came first!

It took him another five minutes, but soon he was off the docks at the marina and on the sidewalk of Townsville’s main coastal boulevard. It had been a _long_ time since he’d last visited a major metropolitan area that _wasn’t_ in another dimension, but from his surroundings, it may as well have been. So many people staring at their new-fangled ‘smart phones’ - how could a phone be ‘smart’? It’s a _phone_ . Yes, it’s a marvel of modern technology that deserves to be celebrated, to be sure, but _still._

That feeling of unfamiliarity was only amplified by all the pedestrians he was driving past giving him a wide berth, staring at him. Ford wasn’t sure what was so funny about a grown man driving down the sidewalk in a miniature cargo carrier - it was a perfectly logical thing for someone in his position to do. He tried to shake it off by staying… reasonably friendly, smiling, occasionally nodding at the gawking locals. “Good morning!” he said. “Good morning, good morning. Fine morning! Satisfying morning! _Adequate_ morning! ... _Exceptional_ morning! ...Exceptionally _good_ morning!”

His smile soon vanished off his face and he sighed, leaning back in his chair. The locals weren’t getting any less mindful of him, and he was running out of synonyms. ...It was like high school all over again. He didn’t even want to imagine going down to the beach. With his pasty complexion, under this sun. Just thinking about it made his skin feel prickly.

He glanced over at said beach, and almost immediately, something caught his attention; his gaze was almost magnetically drawn to it. It felt… Weird, how quickly he noticed.

There was a bird standing out there, on the beach. A large, flightless specimen - a native emu, most likely. That by itself was not particularly noteworthy - there were so many emus here, Ford had heard the Australian army waged war on them. What _was_ noteworthy was the fact that the emu was standing there in the middle of a huge crowd of beach-goers, who paid it no mind. They didn’t even seem to notice it existed. Nor did anyone else around him. As far as Ford could tell, he was the only one who could see it.

And the emu was looking back at him. Staring at him, with its blank, orange eyes. Ford felt a chill course through his entire body, placing the feeling of his sweaty shirt into sharper relief. Suddenly, a thought materialized inside his head, as though it had been placed there. That gaze had seen something. It was seeing something right now. Something beyond Ford, beyond this reality. ...And whatever it was, it was there. It was behind him. It hummed. It reached into the back of his skull, it rummaged around…

And then the bird opened its beak, and spoke.

_WSXVV ZHX RVSPKX WGLEG LPZG XYK CHWC_

_A MXEJZ IL HIAAIIU, G FKWVNO LS CUYTZ_

**_JHZNPU ZHX SRREA IMKR LVLDOXV RTD UFVAV TARE_ **

**_TAS TOTE WYGLE FZSP, TRU GLE GYAWE TRE_ **

Ford blinked.

...What was he doing? He seemed to have really slumped in his seat for a moment, almost fell off like a fool. The bystanders around him started to look a little concerned.

“Y’alright there, old man? You havin’ a stroke?” one man asked.

“Hmm? No, I’m fine, thank you. I just… dozed off a little. You know how it is.”

Ford looked at the beach… was there something there?

He shook his head. It’s that hunger, starting to play tricks on his mind, now. He needed to find a store, and fast.

After a painstaking ten minutes of driving the world’s slowest form of transport - _including_ human legs - around this unfamiliar urban land, getting baked under the sun the whole time (Ford made a mental note to buy some sunscreen as well) he finally reached a suitably large store - a local supermarket, from the looks of things. ‘MOLES’ the sign said above, atop a bright red entryway. The entrance was blockaded by bollards to prevent ram-raids, but thankfully they hadn’t considered someone trying to drive in with a miniature cargo carrier. Not that anyone could ram-raid anything in this thing.

At least he knew what to expect from the supermarket itself - a huge, mercifully air-conditioned hangar-like room with tiled floors and shelves upon shelves of various food items. Ford may be out of touch, but even he knew how supermarkets work, though that might just be because he’d visited a few supermarkets in other dimensions, and for the most part they were exactly like this. The basic principle of ‘big room full of stuff’ seemed to resonate with all the creatures of the multiverse.

What he wasn’t expecting to see was that this store was selling clothes, too. It was right at the far end of the building, to be sure - Ford had chosen to start there so he could methodically comb the place from the top-down, so to speak - and it was all very basic apparel. As luck would have it, they had some of Ford’s favoured summer wear - high-necked long-sleeve t-shirts. He wasn’t much for fashion - as long as it fit, and it was clean (and sometimes not even that, as he’d discovered), it works. Finding a drab green one in his size, he added it to the basket he’d rested atop his cabinet and continued on his way.

It wasn’t long before he’d reached the condiments - that’s all he really needed, anyway. Something to make Brown Meat™ bearable; nothing more, nothing less. Anything more elaborate, Stanley could probably take care of later.

He started thumbing over all the labels of the products available. Ketchup… mayonnaise… caesar ciph- uh, salad dressing (his mind wandered for a moment there)... and something new.

There was a shelf full of bottles of some… dark, viscous substance, almost resembling tar. The bottles were shaped like koalas for some reason, and the yellow label read ‘YEASTEMITE: YEAST EXTRACT’. Ford picked up one of the bottles and examined it; he’d heard about this on the way here. Apparently it was a local delicacy, and something of an acquired taste. It didn’t look like much, and at this point anyone else probably would have put it back, vowing to let it remain a mystery. Not Ford - he once ate a _planet sandwich_ (lucky no ultra-microscopic populations were living on that one… and it tasted like a burned churro), he could handle whatever this Yeastemite was.

Ford glanced in both directions to see if anyone was looking - he could have just paid for it first and _then_ tried it, but science demands he try it now. It was only one little droplet, anyway. He’d pay for it either way. If he didn’t like it, he could always use it as a biofuel.

He opened up the top, squeezed out a single, pea-sized drop onto his index finger, and licked it off.

His pupils suddenly grew. He smiled.

This was _good_ . No, better than good. This was great. Possibly the most advanced, most sophisticated, _objectively_ the best taste in the multiverse. Strong, bitter, but somehow it massaged his tongue, welcoming him; even after he swallowed, it continued to massage his throat, soothing his coarse, worn-out esophagus. It was like it had been waiting for him for his entire life.

The smile on Ford’s face disappeared, as he shook his head and closed the bottle up. What was he thinking? His imagination was overreacting a bit, surely. It was delicious, make no mistake, but… not _that_ delicious. Right? Perhaps it had some secret ingredient. Mind-altering, maybe? He’d need to run some tests. Yes… tests. Lots of tests.

He dropped the Yeastemite bottle he was holding into his basket. Then he took another one. Then another. Then seven more. Yes, that would do. For now.

He breezed through the rest of his shop, picking up some fresh bread, milk, and some desperately-needed sunscreen, before heading to the checkout kiosks. Thankfully the line wasn’t too long; Ford didn’t desire to wait a _yoctosecond_ longer to start his Yeastemite-related taste experiments.

“Greetings!” he said to the rather bored, gum-chewing woman at the checkouts as she began scanning all of his items. “I just arrived in this country, and I have to confess, I’m mystified as to how that Yeastemite substance has not spread worldwide. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the best taste I’ve ever experienced! I’m confident that I can scientifically verify its superiority! I have twelve PhDs, I think it’s within the realms of possibility,” he felt the need to throw in. He wasn’t bragging, just stating the facts. ...Okay, maybe he was bragging a _little_. Hmm. Needed to work on that.

The clerk stopped and looked at him like he was speaking gibberish. Even stopped chewing her gum, her mouth freezing in mid-chew. “...Really? I think it’s gross. I’d ban it if I could,” she said, bluntly.

Given his mind’s previous exaltation of the yeast-based condiment, Ford felt like he should have been somehow incensed by this, but instead, he was intrigued. He began rubbing his chin again. “Hmm, that’s interesting, _very_ interesting… same taste, but polar opposite reactions…”

 _“Right…”_ she said, raising a brow. “Anyway, that’s 25 dollars an’ 31 cents, mate.”

“Right, right, I’m on it!” Ford declared, as he began patting down his pockets, searching around for his wallet. It was then that he heard another voice behind him.

“Ugh, let’s go find a diff’rent line. This old wowser’s a yank, he’s prob’ly gonna... haggle over a dollar an’ start ramblin’ about the war.”

Ford looked back to address this new voice, and found himself looking at a small group of local teenagers - one of whom looked strangely like that Robbie fellow from Gravity Falls. If he had cut his hair into a mullet and wore a muscle shirt about two sizes too big.

“I _can_ hear you, you know. And what ‘war’ are you referring to? There’s been _hundreds_ of armed conflicts in my lifetime alone.”

The teenagers mumbled amongst themselves, with a few of them shrugging. Ford turned back and smirked, satisfied that the youths had been put in their place.

A smirk that very quickly fell away once he came to a horrifying realization. ...The money. Stanley had it. They agreed that he’d look after it because Ford wasn’t supposed to be getting off the boat.

Ford huffed with annoyance and slapped a palm against his face. Of _course_ he’d forgotten something; once again he’d been so caught up in his own thoughts he’d overlooked the most basic thing.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he turned back to face the clerk. “I’m sorry, miss, I seem to have… forgotten my wallet. I’m gonna need to back up and make a call.”

Immediately, he heard the teenagers behind him variously groan and chuckle to themselves as they stepped aside, to let the ‘old wowser’ that was Ford shift into reverse gear. “Please excuse me, sorry, very sorry…” he muttered, though it was difficult to hear him over the cacophonous blaring of his vehicle’s reversal warning alarm. “I _do_ apologize for this inconvenience…”

“Uh, mate, ya might wanna…” the mulleted teen tried to say, but Ford held up a hand, shushing him.

“No, no need, I’ve got this handled, young man!”

Ford swivelled the steering wheel to turn the vehicle as he reversed it out of the checkout area; and in an instant, he felt a sudden shift in gravity, as the entire vehicle started tilting. Probably just a minor bump on the floor, just needed to keep going.

The vehicle kept tilting, and he could hear a crumpling sound. Ford tried to look behind him. He couldn’t see what he was driving over. Had someone left a ramp on the floor? He tried standing up to get a better look, but didn’t think to let go of the steering wheel as he did so. In one swift motion, he turned the wheel even _more_ , dramatically increasing the rate of vehicle tilt. 

Losing his balance, he quickly attempted to sit back down and regain control by braking hard. This was apparently the wrong thing to do, as braking just caused the entire vehicle to shudder - by that point, half the vehicle had somehow ended up off the floor. The weight of his cabinet’s contents shifting to the side only served to further hasten the inevitable.

“Uh-oh…” was all he could say as the vehicle finally tipped over onto its side, the resultant ‘slam’ and the subsequent tumbling of Yeastemite bottles echoing through the supermarket. Ford attempted to stand up and hop off, but he was too late; he instinctively raised his left arm to his face to shield himself from the impact as he fell to the floor alongside it.

“Ah! _Man down!_ ” he announced, as he began to dust himself, getting to his feet.

“Woah; mate, y’okay there?” the Robbie-looking aussie said, apparently with genuine concern, heading over to help him up. Ford waved him off; that was the _second_ time today a stranger asked if he was okay. Was he getting rusty?

“No, no, I’m fine, seriously. But thanks anyway,” Ford said, grunting with exertion as he got back to his feet. If a teenager who’d just been making fun of him sounded concerned for his safety, the least he could do was sound grateful about it.

It was then he noticed how his vehicle had tipped over - some knucklehead had left a bunch of empty cardboard boxes next to the neighbouring kiosk, which he accidentally reversed over, crushing them, creating a diagonal support that enabled him to, very temporarily, drive with one set of wheels _on_ the kiosk’s vertical surface, before the weight of his cabinet forced the vehicle’s rapid horizontal shift. He nodded in acknowledgement at the sight - a perfectly logical, normal thing to happen. That he’d somehow missed. Again.

Was there something _else_ he’d missed? There had to be.

“‘Ey, mate, you dropped this,” the teenager said, holding an ice-cold, unlabelled blue soda can.

Ford suddenly felt all the air in his lungs escape, as his eyes flicked over to the cooler he’d balanced atop his cabinet. The lid had opened upon impact with the ground, depositing the contents onto the floor. Which had then presumably rolled across the aisle, to the teen’s feet.

He didn’t think for a second more. Gasping with shock and eyes wide open with panic, he violently snatched away the ‘soda can’ from the teenager.

“STAY AWAY FROM THAT, THAT IS _EXTREMELY DANGEROUS!_ ” Ford bellowed, spraying spittle all over the poor teen’s face, and prompting the few customers who weren’t already staring at him from the earlier mishap to stop and stare _very_ closely.

“Woah woah, _dangerous?!_ ” the teen shot back, sweating, beginning to shake and unsteadily step away, himself.

“YES, DANGEROUS! IT’S, uh…” Ford racked his mind for something to say. “...IT’S FULL OF _VOLATILE CHEMICALS!_ ONE ERRANT TWITCH, AND IT’LL _BLOW US ALL SKY-HIGH!_ ” he declared, instinctively holding it up in the air, as if to warn everyone of its danger.

 _“BLOODY ‘ELL, IS THAT A BOMB?!”_ the teenager blurted out, eliciting shocked gasps from all around.

“W-well…” Ford tried to clarify, his serious expression faltering somewhat, but before he could elaborate, the teen frantically stepped back, breathing heavily, clutching his chest like he was about to have a heart attack. He turned, rapidly, to everyone in sight, pointing at the ‘soda can’.

“THAT OLD BLOKE’S GOT A BLOODY BOMB! RUN! _RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”_

In an instant, the mass of customers began screaming as they ran out of the store, leaving Ford practically frozen, his jaw dropped from… a mixture of fright, confusion, panic, embarrassment…

Then the store alarm began wailing in the background, as he turned to face the lady who served him, having gone from bored and barely-there to panicking like a deer in the headlights in an instant. “SECURITY TO THE CHECKOUTS, _SECURITY TO THE CHECKOUTS!”_ she yelled into the PA system, before running off herself.

Ford sighed as his expression turned blank, trying to straighten his thoughts out before things escalated even further out of control. Things really have ramped up from 0 to 100 with only the barest of triggers, hmm. Was this normal? Had this dimension gotten twitchier over the past 30 years, or was it just him?

“Alright mate, no need to do anythin’ hasty, now…”

Ford snapped back to his senses as he found himself flanked by two security guards, each of them pointing stun guns at him. ...Seemed a bit excessive for supermarket rent-a-cops, but whatever. This certainly lent credence to his ‘they’ve gone twitchy’ theory he just invented.

“We can work somethin’ out here, just put the bomb down, an’ back away slowly!” the guard continued, clearly shaking in terror.

Ford slid a hand down his face in exasperation. “Listen, I apologize for this, but this is all a huge misunderstanding that’s been blown wildly out of proportion. This isn’t even a bomb!” he said, as he was still holding the ‘soda can’ up in the air, in the same way someone might hold a bomb.

“I SAID _DROP IT!_ ” the guard yelled back, risking a step forward.

“I’m being serious, this is _not_ a bomb! Look at it!” Ford stressed, holding out in front of him and making the guard recoil back. “Does this _look_ like a bomb to you?! It’s a… a… refreshing, cold drink!”

“This is your LAST WARNING!” the guard said, ignoring him completely.

Okay, no more talking, Ford needed to get serious. He needed to think. Think back to those days on the run. Hopping through dimensions. He’d been held at gunpoint before. How did he get out of it? Making use of what he had at hand, no matter what it was. What did he have in hand right now? This ‘soda can’. ...It _was_ for emergencies. This _is_ an emergency. It only stands to reason…

Ford squinted, focusing his vision on the tiny text of the can. ‘KEEP CHILLED. SHAKE WELL BEFORE USE. LASTS 15 MINUTES,’ with a certain stylized hourglass emblem next to it.

He sighed once more. He was sighing _a lot_ today. “You brought this on yourself, Ford. Should’ve just stayed on the boat…” he mumbled to himself.

He only had one shot. He needed to be quick. He’d done this before, with even higher stakes. That plan with Stanley, switching clothes to fool Bill? Totally off-the-cuff. Barely worked out. They changed clothes like they’d never changed clothes before. Now he’d need to… shake up a can like he’d never shaken up a can before. ...That was not a thought he’d had every day.

He breathed in, tensing up, and vigorously shook the can in his hand.

“What is he…?” he could hear one of the guards question, briefly dumbstruck, before the other snapped him out of it. “IT’S GONNA BLOW, _STOP HIM!”_

There was his cue. In a flash, he reached for the ring-pull on the ‘soda can’, cracking it open, barely milliseconds before one of the guards clambered atop his toppled vehicle and tackled him into a nearby decorative pyramid of cereal boxes. 

As the can flew from his hand, he felt a mighty sonic boom erupt from its opening. 

_‘KRRK-OOOOOOOOOOOOOM’_

The earth shook. He grunted as he crashed into the cereal boxes on his side, their contents crunching beneath his weight. Groaning, he rolled over to face the ceiling, stopping for a moment to massage his ears, deafened by the shock of the sonic boom. But he felt no weight above him.

Slowly, he blinked, getting his bearings. He could see the guard who had tackled him right there. His face locked into a half-panicked, half-determined scream, his arms wide from the grab, one hand holding the stun gun, an arc of electricity motionless at its business end. Droplets of sweat and saliva cast off the guard’s face and mouth were frozen in the air around him - much like the guard himself. He was entirely off the ground, but never fell.

Ford was able to slide under his frozen form, getting back to his feet. He saw several of the cereal boxes he’d crashed into locked into the air as well, with some crushed, dusty fragments of cereal scattered about them. The other guard was off to the side, apparently ready to aid in his colleagues’ dogpiling efforts, only to wind up frozen, too.

He squinted off down the other end of the supermarket - there were still some customers left fleeing the place, except now, of course, they could only stand there like panicked statues.

It didn’t take long for Ford to locate his ‘soda can’, which itself was frozen in the air from when it flew out of his hand, now crumpled into a useless state. Despite this, he was able to pluck it out of the air and hold it with no issues. 

Obviously it was never a soda can - it was a device he’d picked it up back in Iceland, appropriately enough. He’d discovered, frozen within an ancient glacier, the skeleton of a long-dead time traveler; judging from what was left of their clothes, and the oddly well-preserved equipment found with them, they were a member of the Time Anomaly Removal Crew from this dimension’s future. Their Time Tape was damaged beyond repair, but they also had some of these ‘Time Cans’ with them. Ford had kept them refrigerated since then, saving them for an emergency. This was _not_ the ‘emergency’ he’d imagined.

He headed over to his still tipped-over cargo carrier. Managing to heave it back to its proper position, he opened up his cabinet, rummaging around for something. Thankfully, the Time Can projects a sort of localized anti-temporal inertia bubble around the one who opens it, enabling them to breathe and manipulate objects like normal.

Soon, Ford found what he was looking for - his Memory-Eraser Ray, or more accurately, Fiddleford’s. It wasn’t the original one Fiddleford had built - Mabel had destroyed it at the end of last summer, to remove even the remote possibility that she’d forget what happened in those three months. Which was admirable, and Ford had grappled with himself over this, but his pragmatic side knew that such a device could come in handy should they ever run into another nightmare demon, or someone sees something they really shouldn’t, so he gathered what he could and reverse-engineered it, spending his downtime on the _Stan O’ War_ to build a copy with the aid of Fiddleford’s blueprints. 

He was glad he did - all he needed to do now was erase all evidence of his visit here. The only alternative was this ‘bomb scare’ ending up in the local news, and there was no chance he could conduct his investigation with _that_ hanging over him.

By his estimate, wiring the ray up to the store’s PA system, then destroying the security tapes, and finally getting the heck out of dodge, would only take about 10-12 minutes, tops. So he had about three minutes to kill. Now that he finally had some peace in the midst of his shopping trip-turned-disaster, he had a chance to reflect on how this happened.

He’d made a fool of himself at least three times in less than an hour. He hadn’t been out in a city in this dimension for over 30 years - he’d spent most of those 30 years by himself, always on the move, trusting no-one. He shuddered at the implications. Was he socially non-functional now? After everything he’s been through, does he need a guiding hand just to do ‘normal’ things? It was almost funny, really - it was just like the old absent-minded professor cliche. Stanford Pines, Author of the Journals, can’t even go down to the store and buy Yeastemite without embarrassing himself in public. ...Maybe this was all self-inflicted. He had decided to become one with Weird ever since he knew most other kids didn’t have six fingers. He wasn’t sure if he could ever escape the Weird… along with the weird. The mundane weird.

The Memory-Eraser Ray made him think of the kids again. He had a theory why he latched onto them so quickly - after the ordeal he went through, they represented stability, peace, normality. They grounded him, made him feel human again, not some inscrutable superman who lived only to destroy Bill. Obviously he was never a ‘superman’ - far from it - but he’d be lying if he said he never got a hero complex after so long by himself. He needs to stop being a ‘hero’. He needs to be human, just for a bit. ...He needs the kids here.

* * *

“Hmm… not bad… very ‘me’. Lets people know what I’m all about from just one look. I like that. It’s a new application of the mullet principle; business on the top floor, party downstairs!”

Stan said this of the new haircut that Jo had given him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was saying; he knew he liked it, and the exact way he expressed his approval just assumed the form of whatever babble came out of his mouth at that stage. He left the hairdresser’s shortly afterwards. Before he left, Jo had informed him of a nice Chinese restaurant that her cousin owned; just thinking about it made his stomach grumble, it had been far too long since he’d had any Chinese food. More importantly, though, next door was a cash-for-gold place, and they had a gambling room out back.

Stan now walked the streets with renewed confidence, once again sauntering along like he owned the place; even wore his stolen hat, intending to surprise his brother with his new hair. Things were going pretty well, all things considered. He now had a possible avenue to make a tonne of cash in a short time, which he’d need if he wanted to make this investigation-slash-vacation the best investigation-slash-vacation his family could ever possibly want! Plus, he’d made a local contact in the form of Jo. She was a good lady. Didn’t flatter him, but he didn’t flatter her, either. Knew how to listen. Knew how to talk gambling and commerce. Had some good stories; while she was cutting his hair, she regaled him with a tale of how she'd toured with the Kickadas around Asia back in the 70s, had a run-in with some soldiers hunting communist guerrillas outside Bangkok, and would have gotten the band sold into slavery had it not been for winning their freedom in a poker game; cheated, of course. Marked cards, oldest trick in the book. Stan had called her dumb for thinking it'd work, but it _did_ work. Apparently she was disguised as a dude the whole time, too; went into hairdressing to steal hair so she could make a fake beard. Clever girl. ...He wouldn’t go so far as to call her a friend yet. Maybe soon, though.

As he turned the next corner, a surprise awaited him. Startled, he almost hopped back, before fully considering what exactly he’d just walked into.

It was… his brother. Off the boat. Driving some kind of… miniature electric cargo scooter? With what looked like a huge bag of… Yeastemite? _That_ garbage? And the look on his face… oh boy. Age was finally starting to catch up to old Poindexter, wasn’t it?

Stan bit his tongue as he tried to keep himself from laughing, his face straining from the effort.

“Now, Stanley,” Ford said with that old ‘try to act like a robot’ expression of his. “I can assure you there is a rational explanation behind this.”

“Pffff-HAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Stan couldn’t help himself; he didn’t even control it, the force of the laughter was just too much; it was dying to burst out and feel freedom, and it did, and Stan was happier for it. “Oh my _freakin’ lord!_ Paging Doctor Von Mobility Scooter over here! ‘Bout to suffer _Tar-mite poisoning!_ ” he managed to squeeze out between laughs, pounding the vehicle with a hysterical fist.

“...Does this really look like a mobility scooter? Is _that_ why everyone was staring?” Ford muttered to himself. Then he sat up, narrowing his eyes at his brother’s head. “Wait, where’d you get that hat? ...You _did_ pay for it, right?”

“Woah, okay, okay! _WOW_. And here I thought you finally trusted me!” Stan shot back, again pretending to be insulted. “...But nah, I didn’t. It’s okay, though, it’s a present for Dipper! Oh, and even better - check it out, I found an agreeable old...ish hairdresser, she murdered that stupid mullet, and gave me, da-da-da-daaa!”

With a flourish, Stan grabbed his hat and dramatically lifted it off his head, pointing at his new haircut. Even waggled his eyebrows for effect. “Eh? Preeeeetty nice, eh, eh?”

Stan’s new haircut was a far cry from his old one - he’d gotten a military-style flat top, with the sides and back shaved down. Nothing too unusual, if it hadn’t been for the ‘special way’ that Jo had shaved down those sides. She’d shaved down certain areas to leave them practically bald - and did so to create the impression of a huge dollar sign on each side of his head. It wasn’t subtle, but it was definitely ‘Stan-esque’. Lets people know what he’s all about.

Now it was Ford’s turn to be amused. He chuckled under his breath, which for Mr. Robo-Stan here was equal to Stan’s own violent guffaws.

“What, what’s so funny?”

“Hah, you make fun of _me_ for showing up in this vehicle? What on earth have you done to your hair? _Dollar signs?_ Are you having a three-quarter-life crisis?” he accused, though the smile on his face as he did so betrayed its affectionate nature.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’ve been having a mid-life crisis since I was 30, and not once have I ever sought to end it!”

“Ha, okay, okay… heh…” Ford said, holding out his palms, before suddenly ‘snapping’ back to his usual serious self, so quickly he had to adjust his glasses. “...But seriously, Stanley, you should probably avoid stealing any more hats while we’re here. Though at least you’re doing it for a more altruistic reason, I suppose.”

Stan pointed up, remembering something. “Oh yeah, that reminds me! Have you thought about-”

“I have, and the answer is yes.”

Stan maintained his pose, though his expression quickly blanked out, stunned. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. I won’t explain any further. Just accept it.”

Hell, good enough for him!

Stan’s face soon grew a huge grin. “HAH! I knew it, I knew you’d come around! C’mere, you big nerd!” he said, charging in to give Ford the strongest bear hug he could muster. As his brother returned the hug - as best as he could, given Stan’s crushing grip - Stan looked to the sky, shaking a fist at a passing cloud where he assumed the Southern Cross would probably be later tonight.

“Look out, Australia! The full Pines clan is comin’ for you, _and they’re not takin’ any prisoners!”_

“W-well, I think that might be overstating things somewhat…” Ford said, still smiling. Though he briefly looked off to the side, something occurring to him. “Oh, by the way Stanley, I should probably mention - I’m chronologically half an hour older than you now. It’s a long story.”

“AHA! Haha… hah… wait, what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AOL RLF PZ PU AOL QVBYUHS. HSZV, FLZ, AVDUZCPSSL PZ H YLHS WSHJL.


	3. No 'Buts' Except Yours Out Of My Office!

“Seventy-two, paddle paddle, seventy-three, paddle paddle, seventy-four, paddle paddle, seventy-five, paddle paddle…”

Now this was a test of endurance if Mabel had ever known one; and it had all started so innocently.

For reasons she felt it best to keep hidden from even herself, wrapping them up like a big, tantalizing present, she was feeling nostalgic. Very nostalgic indeed. She’d attired herself in the same sort of summer wear she wore back in Gravity Falls, complete with a burgundy sweater with her Grunkle Stan’s ‘holy mackerel’ emblem on the front. 

Speaking of Stan, in her hand she held one of those old bouncy paddle-ball toys from prehistoric times - Soos had given it to her for christmas, having found it while clearing out Stan’s office back at the Shack. Mabel hadn’t understood the appeal until she tried it for herself, and discovered it was a _great_ attention-stealer and anxiety-destroyer - especially after she subjected it to one of her trademark glitterizations. Now it sprays glitter in cute little clouds every time the ball bounces back!

If all that wasn’t enough nostalgia, she was now walking through her and Dipper’s favourite slice of Piedmont Park; a little strip of woods in the suburbs that, if you ignored the hand railings, benches, and the odd nature guide, could almost pass for the backwoods of Oregon, if you squint your eyes really hard. Dipper was kind of a grump about it at first (he was all like, ‘buuuuh it’s not the same, it smells too nice, where’s all the pits of pure despair?’), but Mabel’s wise counsel made him see reason - now he comes here whenever he needs to think really hard about something. It was his _super_ -nerd-out zone.

If Mabel was honest, part of the reason she forgot why she was even looking for him was this paddle-ball. She’d already made it up to ninety paddle paddle; but any second now, she could catch sight of her brother, and her great one-hundred paddle paddle milestone could be ruined by even that tiny distraction! 

Hmm… this was all starting to seem familiar. She gasped. Was she about to transform into Paddlebel from Dimension Paddleton? That wasn’t an alternate counterpart she met - because it could be _her_! That’s why she was the only Mabel who didn’t have a dumb quirk, it just hadn’t manifested yet! She imagined an alternate timeline where a different Mabel was the one to save the day back in Dimension MAB-3L, and she was there….

_‘Sorry, one-million-two-hundred-thousand-and-thirty paddle paddle, can’t talk, one-million-two-hundred-thousand-and-thirty-one paddle paddle, li’l busy here, one-million-two-hundred-thousand-and-thirty-two paddle paddle…’_

Oh thank God, it was Dipper! She could see him in his ‘secret spot’ (that the entire family knew about, including Waddles), that cobblestone alcove at the bottom of a steep wooded incline, writing in some notepad - not his journal. Odd. Mighty odd…

Oh hey, while she was thinking, she’d made it to one-hundred-and-eleven paddle paddle. It took a great deal of willpower - you could even see strain in her eyes - but she was able to stop paddle-paddling for now. That’s a nice even number. Or… odd number. Odd like Dipper!

What is he even doing, anyway? She could kinda hear him talking to himself - that’s pretty normal - but also gesturing to himself? Dramatically? She opted to break off the path and walk up the steep hill, getting atop the cobblestone walls so she was hidden up above, his back turned to her.

“‘I appreciate the offer, Atlantica, but I’ve no time for parties - I have a category twelve ghost to dispose of; but don’t worry, I won’t ghost _you_!’ Leo said, awkwardly adjusting his glasses, as he tried to deftly maneuver through the portcullis - clumsily bumping into a wall on the way out.”

As Dipper narrated whatever this even was, he mimed walking backwards just as ‘Leo’ did - including walking back too far and bumping into the stone bench built into the alcove. Mabel’s brow perked up at the sight - was this that screenplay she saw the other night? The Mystery of Tremble-town or whatever?

“Atlantica, nonchalant as ever, simply turns away. ‘Hmph!’ she intones, as her platinum-blonde locks swoosh in the air, ‘whatever you say, dork’” Dipper continued narrating, now pulling off a ‘snooty rich girl’ sort of act. It almost reminded the observing Mabel of Pacif-

Oh _wait a second._

Mabel started biting down on her lip as she grew one of her manic grins; barely able to hold in a squeal of delight, she started pushing her cheeks together to better block it up. Who did Dipper think he was fooling with these transparent name changes? He’s so obviously writing himself into this hokey adorable love story!

“As Leo leaves the scene, Atlantica turns back to where he was but a moment ago, and her expression turns to one of concern. Had she overdone it? After a thought, she turns back to him - still nervously trudging through the tunnel - and calls out after him-”

“HEY LEO!”

 _“AAH!”_ Dipper yelped in surprise as he did his classic noodle-arm-flailing and almost fell over, startled, dropping his notepad and pen on the ground. Managing to balance on the toes of just one foot, he was able to swivel round and catch sight of Mabel watching him from above.

“Mabel?! Where the hell did you come from?! How long have you been here?!”

“Ohhh, _not long…_ ” She answered, with a sly look that made the exact meaning of what she said ambiguous. “Whatcha doin’ there, bro-bro?”

“O-oh, this?” Dipper clarifies as he regains his posture, picking the notepad and pen off the ground. “Uh, it’s, um… drama. Homework. Drama homework.”

“Cool! Can I see?” Mabel asked, not even mentioning that they didn’t _have_ homework anymore, since school had ended days ago.

“You really shouldn’t, it’s a… special assignment the teacher suggested for me. Kinda personal.”

“Hmm, personal drama! The _best_ kind of drama!” Mabel declared, before glancing off to the side, circling a hand. “Oh, by the way, totally unrelated question, just popped into my head - what was up with that super-secret screenplay I saw on your laptop the other night?”

“Oh!” Dipper perked up, suddenly looking more confident - almost as if he’d rehearsed what he was about to say… “You mean _The Mystery of Trembleyville_? Oh, that’s not mine. It’s by Mason Birch! I’m just looking after it for him.”

“Yeah, Mason Birch! Love that guy!” Mabel declared, as she finally clambered down from her vantage point. “Yanno, that awesome friend of ours, who happens to have your real name and a tree for a last name, just like us!”

Already, Dipper lost his confidence again. From up close, Mabel could sense his awkward teenager sweat. “Uh… _yyyyyyes_? Funny coincidence, I know!”

Mabel didn’t even say anything in response to that; still with that sly expression, she made ring shapes with her hands and - “Boooooooop!” - raised them up to her eyes.

Finally, Dipper’s attempt at nonchalance turned to resignation, and he huffed. “Okay, Mabel, you can put away the Skepticles. You win. Mason Birch is actually me, and I was working on a screenplay, and I might have gotten a _little_ into it! But that’s it! I’m only telling you this because if I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Putting down her hands, Mabel put her hands on her hips, giving Dipper an affectionate nudge. “See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it? I gotta say, I’m _super_ -into it now, I wanna hear where that whole category twelve ghost thing goes! If I was a hollywood guy, I’d totally throw all the money at you right now!”

“Heh, thanks…” Dipper said, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but you're my sister, so you have to say that.”

“Baloney! Baloney, I tell you!” Mabel declared, “there’s an art to making a movie that can captivate hyperactive, impressionable teenage girls like _moi_. At the very least, they’re a sure moneymaker!” she added, rubbing her fingers together like she was holding a quarter. “Your Pacifica impression is uncanny, too!”

Dipper chuckled, that distinct musk of awkward teenage sweat flaring up again. “Heheh, that’s nice, but I dunno why you bring that up. The character’s name was _Atlantica_ , after all.”

“ _Dipper_ , am I gonna have to get the Skepticles out again?” Mabel teased, waggling her eyebrows.

“Okay, Mabel, why have you tracked me here? I know there’s a reason,” Dipper suddenly piped up, apparently wanting to make sure she didn’t get distracted with Pacifica talk. He was right - Mabel _had_ been working on herself, and one part of that was valuing her brother’s ‘me’ time (or… ‘him’ time?); she promised herself she wouldn’t go bothering him out of the house or in his room unless she really needed to. Like the other night, when she had that stupid nightmare.

Then, like a match, that one thought made her light up - of _course_ there was a reason, and a super-duper important reason, too! It was that paddle-paddle, it made her forget! She started biting her lip from excitement again, but for a non-shipping-related reason this time (not that she’d completely forgotten about that, of course - _‘I’ll deal with you later!’_ her brain said to those thoughts).

“Okayokayokay, so…” she began, breathlessly, “remember the other night, when you said you wished you could travel with the Grunkles? Well, GUESS WHAT?! _WE’REGOINGTOAUSTRALIA!_ ”

Dipper shook his head, bewildered. “Wait, what was that?”

Rather than try to chance explaining everything in words she’s bound to get all jumbly and mixed-up, Mabel simply took out her phone, opened the email she’d gotten not half an hour ago, and held it right in Dipper’s face.

“Dear Dipper and Mabel…” Dipper began reading the email the Grunkles had forwarded to them. “I hope this message finds you well. My brother and I are certain you are eager to spend your summer in Gravity Falls once more. You already know that we cannot immediately make it back - and, unfortunately, we do not know if we can complete our investigation here in Australia in time for your birthday. I would consider postponing, but sea travel is a lengthy and arduous process, and the nature of this particular investigation warrants that it be treated as a top priority, for reasons I cannot disclose over this insecure online network. Therefore, rather than risk not seeing you this summer, we would like to offer you an opportunity to join our investigation personally?!”

Dipper had to stop to get his bearings, making sure he wasn’t just seeing things. He continued. “We must be clear, this is not an obligation - we know you have other friends you will no doubt wish to see, plus, anything concerning anomalies in a foreign country is a dangerous prospect even for myself; I am lucky I have Stanley to handle the social side of our travels, blunt and lacking in tact he may be. Furthermore, I am aware your parents - being unaware of our real purpose - may not permit it, particularly since we cannot cover the cost of a flight from California, or at least not without sacrificing essential comforts. I urge you not to take this decision lightly - just know that, should you choose to join us here, we would be more than happy to have you. Both of you. Stanley in particular has become almost ecstatic at the prospect of having a ‘real summer vacation’; that being said, do not allow this to guilt-trip you. I am sure you will make an informed decision. All the best, Stanford.”

Mabel finally permitted herself a squeal of delight. “ _EEEEEEEEE!_ THEYWANTUSTOHAVESUPERSUMMERVACATIONADVENTURESINAUSTRALIA! IWANNAHUGALLTHEMARSUPIALS! EVENTHEDEADLYONESWHICHISPROBABLYALLOFTHEM!”

“Woah, woah, okay, let’s… let’s calm ourselves, think rationally…” Dipper tried to say as he clearly had trouble containing his own excitement, reminiscent of when he first met Grunkle Ford. Just like then, he gave up, letting it all out. “...Oh, who am I kidding, this is _AWESOME!_ I spent all of last summer obsessing over those journals, now I’ll get to see the beginning of a new one, from The Author himself! First-hand, up close and personal!”

Mabel had known since her brother and Grunkle Ford had started sharing their discoveries, whenever Dipper would become ultra-excited like he just did, or when he was being all ‘do not misunderestimate the importance of our research’, he’d sometimes refer to Ford as ‘The Author’ again, like he was some kind of superhero. Which… he kind of is? But at the same time, like… he couldn’t have defeated Bill on his own, he needed help from all of Gravity Falls. He’s a human being just like anyone else, too. Even if he _has_ been all over the multiverse, and has all those super gadgets.

It was thinking about this that made _her_ calm down first - her previously sunny disposition darkened, as she thought about what Ford himself pointed out in the email. “Ooh, but… what about the others in Gravity Falls? What about Soos, and Wendy, and Candy and Grenda, and… well, Pacifica?” she added, permitting herself a little sly wink at the end.

“Woah, that’s… talk about a 180, heh…” Dipper said, as surprised as she was that _Mabel_ was being the voice of reason here. Thankfully he was so caught off-guard that he didn’t seem to care about her little insinuation. “Hmm, you _do_ have a point… then, again, there’s the expenses… still, I mean… we _have_ to accept, right? Or at least _try!_ I mean, who knows when we could get another chance? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime deal! I love Gravity Falls, but I doubt it’s gonna change that much if we’re not looking! ...Right?” he added, beginning to sound uncertain.

“I dunno…” Mabel said, beginning to tug at her sweater, “like, I _really_ wanna see kangaroos and watch Grunkle Stan get into a boxing match with ‘em, too! But… _blaaaagh_ , I can’t decide! This is so _stupid_ , why do we have to decide between two things that are so equally awesome, we don’t wanna miss out on either of ‘em?”

Mabel dramatically laid down atop the stone bench next to her, as if it was a mortuary slab. These are the worst kinds of decisions. At least if you have to decide between two bad things, you can just go with the _least_ worst one! How do you decide the _most best_ of two already best-in-the-world things?

Glancing back at Dipper, she noticed… he was in thinking mode again. He had his pen held next to him, and he was clicking away at it. He had an idea, and already her ears perked up to hear what it was.

“...Who said we can’t have both? In a way, I mean. Let’s be real, we already know mom and dad are gonna be worried about us going to the airport on our own. They’re not like Grunkle Stan, they have actual _rules_ for us. Buuut… if we, hypothetically, had some adult supervision…”

Mabel almost immediately shot up to a sitting position.

“LIKE SOOS!”

Dipper clucked his tongue. “Bingus bongus bablamo! _And_ , while it’s no guarantee, I suspect that if Soos says he’s going to Australia with us, Wendy will probably wanna come as well. We can at least wrangle those two; they’re part of the original Mystery Shack crew, Stan won’t complain. Ford might, but… nah, he’ll be fine. Any more than that would _probably_ be pushing it. The only wrinkle in this plan is what they’d do with the Shack…”

Mabel dismissively waved a hand. “Eh, I’m sure Soos could work something out. The Shack is, like, hero-ville in Gravity Falls now, they can probably call in a bajillion favours.”

* * *

“...And remember, as the original Mr. Mystery always used to say - we put the ‘fun’ in ‘no refunds’!”

Another satisfied minibus full of tourists departed the Mystery Shack grounds, as the current Mr. Mystery, ‘Soos’ Ramirez, waved goodbye to them with his 8-ball cane, in a way that would seem insincere from literally anyone else - especially considering the prior remark. And the one who invented said remark.

Not anymore, Soos knew - this was an _honest_ tourist trap now! It was so honest, he even stopped wearing an eyepatch. Though that was mostly because he kept walking into the wall on the way in due to lack of depth perception. Indeed, as he turned around to re-enter the gift shop, he reflexively dodged to the left. Bumping into the _right_ side of the door as a result. No-one ever said it was an exact art.

“Alright, DUUUUUDES!” he announced as he returned inside, spreading his arms wide, “we really made the _BIG MONEY_ today! Even now, I can see the questions forming in their heads, ready to spread to new visitors like the good version of a zombie virus! And not just because of the question mark-shaped exhaust mufflers we sell now!” he said, as the departing minibus coasted past the building, question mark-shaped puffs of exhaust fumes getting spewed into the air behind it.

“This calls for high fives - no, high- _twenties_ all ‘round!” Soos announced as he turned to his left, addressing Melody, in her Mystery Shack uniform. “Melody! You make facts _fun!_ I tell ya, if you were my history teacher at school, I could probably remember… like, what year that financial crisis was, the one everyone always goes on about! The negative-twelve dollar bill was the highlight for me!”

Melody’s face bore an expression mirroring her boyfriend’s, what she dubbed a ‘smile of determination’, and they exchanged a powerful high-twenty - a sideways high-five, followed by a backhanded high-five, topped off by placing the palms of the hands against each other and clasping the fingers together twice. After Mr. Pines invented the high-six with his brother Mr. Pines 2, Soos knew he had to up his game.

“Haha!” Melody chuckled, “You know, back in high school we had to do a history presentation, and I demonstrated the poor state of medieval hygiene that led to the Black Death by bathing in mud, fully-clothed, in front of the whole class! ...Got some kinda fungal infection and had to stay off school for a whole month. But it sure taught ‘em!”

“That’s kinda gross, but at the same time, _hardcore_ ! Just like _these dudes!_ ” Soos declared, turning to his next two employees, who appeared to be a pair of bipedal, fish-like monsters wearing wrestling trunks, one of them clearly much larger and more muscular than the other, but both shorter than Soos.

“You two! _Lovin’_ the enthusiasm in that display of fish-man wrestling! You can keep kayfabe like you’re under oath in court! Which they actually did back in the day…”

The ‘fish men’ proceeded to pull their permanently-angry heads off, revealing them to be stitched-together cotton bodysuits, worn by local ‘odd girls’ Candy and Grenda.

“Thank you, Mr. Ramirez!” said Candy, adjusting her glasses, “I found it to be an enlightening experience. Do we not all need an outlet for our inner animal?”

“Very true, very true…” Soos said, as though they were wise philosophers (which they totally are, in a way).

 **“I’ve always wanted to be a RAMPAGING MONSTER when I grow up!”** Grenda chimed in, **“...so my mom said I should go into CORPORATE** **_LOBBYING!_ ** **But I was like ‘NUH-UH, girl, those are** **_BAD VIBES!’_ ** **I can be a MONSTER without being a** **_BAD GUY!”_ **

“ _Yes!_ You two are just _full_ of life lessons today! I love the stitchwork, too! You’ve come a long way since the Sock Puppets of Pure Desperation!”

 **“THANKS!”** Grenda shouted as she pounded a fist over her chest. **“I pour my heart and soul into ALL MY WORK! These are my** **_BABIES!_ ** **”**

Soos responded with a chest-pound of his own, before giving Candy and Grenda some customary high-twenties. Though he had to stop and nurse his hand after Grenda’s. He was sure he heard something crack. ...Nah, it’ll be fine.

Suddenly, Candy perked up, apparently expectant. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Ramirez-”

“Eheh…” Soos couldn’t help but chuckle nervously as he felt sweat rolling down his neck. Being referred to by a formal title made him all… not chill. Like he was some sort of Greek God holding up the shack on his shoulders. Awesome image, but probably not something you’d wanna do every day. “Please, just call me Soos.”

“Of course, I apologize. Soos, have you considered my proposal for your next big attraction? I assure you, I have run it past Mayor Cutebiker, he ‘gits it’, as he says. You need not worry of legal repercussions.”

 **“YEAH! It’s got action, adventure, comedy, romance, horror, science, history, music, politics, philosophy, religion, basically** ** _EVERY GENRE EVER!”_** Grenda added, pumping both fists for emphasis. **“I’d have said fantasy, but that’s basically covered under SCIENCE! It’s speculative fiction, it’s all a kind of science!** ** _THINK ABOUT IT!”_**

Soos began sweating again, but this time for a different reason. He knew what Candy’s proposal was, and… he knew that he’d been taking the Shack in a different direction than under Mr. Pines’ management. The stories he told the tourists were no longer completely fabricated - he’d always insert little grains of truth in there, inspired by his and the rest of the crew’s encounters with Weird stuff. Of course, to the visitors, it’s all equally unbelievable, but getting them to believe it isn’t the point. It’s a place of wonder, a place where your imagination can run wild! But to subject _Weirdmageddon_ to that treatment? It felt… wrong. How could he ever re-tell _that_ in a way that doesn’t leave kids traumatized? Or _adults_ traumatized, for that matter? It wasn’t even the Weird parts he was worried about, though Bill rearranging people’s screaming faces and turning him into a banner was certainly up there - it was the very real threat of starvation, not knowing if you’d even see tomorrow, or if you’d ever see your family or friends again. You don’t have to face Weirdness to face _those._ Sure, he could always downplay it, but… that also feels wrong. Like, if you were gonna pretend it was a piece of cake, you may as well pretend it never happened at all.

“I, uh…” Soos tried to say, as he saw Candy’s bright expression slowly darken - much like his own. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask about this now, catching him off-guard - he said he was gonna think about it before, but he… kinda didn’t. Really Soosed it up, huh.

“I… I-I dunno, Candy…”

“...Really? Why?” she said, disappointed. “I already perfected the sound system. I worked so hard…”

Oh geez, this was even worse than he thought.

“You… you did? Well, I… that’s great, dude, but… you shoulda asked me earlier, then…”

Soos’ eyes darted over to Melody, desperate for her to give him some kind of reprieve, or a second opinion, _anything_. Unfortunately, she was just as stumped as him - she shrugged, with a worried look.

Soos thought back to that time Mabel ran the Mystery Shack - she could only ever get stuff done when she put her foot down. When she said ‘no’. She’d only been running it for a few days - he’d been running it for months. The time would have to come eventually.

He sighed, adjusting Mr. Pines’ fez. “...Look, Candy, I love the whole ‘Triangle Apocalypse Light Show’ idea, you know I do, and it’s great you worked so hard on it, but... my mind _and_ my gut - my mind-guts, if you will - aren’t too big on it? It’s just, it feels wrong. The ‘W-word’ can’t be, like, fun for all the family. That’s like… if we had a… a…”

“You mean it’d cheapen it?” Melody suggested.

“Yes! Yes, exactly like that! ...I think. Like, it’s gotta be treated with gravity; we don’t want the gravity to fall,” Soos continued, stopping briefly to allow himself a quick chuckle at his awesome unintentional pun. “Heh. But yeah, it’s like… we’re not one of those super-serious memorial museum memory-of-the-fallen kinda places. We’re the Mystery Shack! Yanno what I mean?”

Candy’s gaze fell to the floor. “Oh… yes, I understand. Thank you for considering it. I am sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Ramirez.”

Crestfallen, she turned away and headed into the neighbouring rooms. Grenda stayed silent, looking equally disappointed. She only glanced up at Soos before following.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Soos” Melody said, placing a hand on Soos’ shoulder. “These things happen. Communication’s kind of a crapshoot sometimes. I know why you made that call. It’ll work itself out!”

“Thanks, Mel,” Soos said, his expression still quite downbeat. He gently removed her hand from his shoulder. “I still feel all crummy, though. Like… ugh, I _hate_ having to be the one to say ‘no’. Candy probably thinks her idea is stupid now. ...I don’t get it, I always wanted to be Mr. Mystery, and now I _am_ , so it should be awesome! Right?”

He glanced over to the crude (but cool!) statue of ‘Our Founder’ that had become a permanent fixture of the gift shop. He remembered how he was super-strict in the way he ran his business, kinda mean towards the customers. How _did_ he do it? Did he just enjoy saying _‘no’_ in a way Soos doesn’t get?

Looking around the gift shop also made him remember a certain person, or rather, that person’s absence.

“Hey, have you seen Wendy? I thought she was working the register today,” Soos asked.

Suddenly, Melody began to look uneasy. “Uh… no, not _recently_. I think she said she had a headache. I, uh…”

Soos leaned in to listen closely, but Melody tried to stand back up straight, ignoring the thought. “Nah, never mind, it’s not important.”

“Aw, come on, Mellow-Dellow, what’s up?” Soos said, beginning to smile again. A mischievous glint in his eyes, he lifted up his suit jacket. “You gonna tell, or am I gonna have to call in _Detective-Inspector Pinball Belly?_ Ting, ting!” he said, beginning to lean into Mel so that she’d get squashed between the counter she was leaning on and the belly in question.

Melody giggled, gently pushing him off. “Hehe, stop it! Okay, okay! It’s just… I think Wendy’s been avoiding me on purpose. ...I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Soos’ expression immediately returned to a concerned state, and he let his jacket cover his gut again - this probably wasn’t a case that DtInsp. P. Belly could handle.

“She doesn’t like you? But… nah, that can’t be right. How could anyone not like you? You’re like a cuter version of me! And you stood up to killer robots to protect Mr. Pines’ niece and nephew! You were there for the W-word, too, and all ‘cause you came down here from Portland to see me that day. You ‘get’ us, and everyone knows that. Right?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s the issue,” Melody clarified, “I think it’s got more to do with the Shack. The other day, I read the comments on the OregonTouristTrailFollowers Blavver account. She said I was the one ‘forcing’ you to make the Shack more ‘kid-friendly’ and ‘safe’. Said I don’t really ‘understand’ why people liked the Shack when Mr. Pines ran it.”

“Huh…” Soos went, as he turned away to think. This was news to him; he had always assumed Wendy’s interest in the Shack began and ended with the people who work there, plus her paycheck when _she_ worked there over the summer. Which was fine, but he never figured she cared much about the actual contents of the place.

More importantly, though, Melody wasn’t forcing him to do anything. Sure, she offered suggestions, but he’d known right from the start he’d never be the same kind of boss as Mr. Pines. Plus, with the internet providing easy access for those seeking real-world weirdness, he knew he couldn’t rely on the old tricks.

Soos turned back to face his girlfriend, his expression still dark, but now a bit more certain. “Thanks for letting me know, Mel. I’ll talk to her about it; there’s probably some big misunderstanding floating around Gravity Falls High. Maybe that Robbie jerk has been spreading rumours. Or Gideon. I dunno, I still don’t really know what his deal is now. ...Does he even live here anymore? Thought he mighta gone back home to cowboy times or whatever.”

“Who’s Gideon?” Melody asked.

Soos circled a hand around. “Oh, some kid who used to run… like a circus tent, everyone thought he was a psychic, but he wasn’t, and he kept trying to steal the shack, but he couldn’t, then he could, then he built this giant kick-ass robot, and he’d also been collecting these journals, which Dipper had found a few weeks back which had been left there by Mr. Pines - uh, not _our_ Mr. Pines, the one who came out of the portal, Stanford, our one is Stan _ley_ but he was pretending to _be_ Stanford, and- wait, I told you all this, right?”

“Uh… yeah. Yanno what, you can tell me later. I need to take a leak. Super-into the kick-ass robot thing, though. You could sell little mini versions!”

“Hmm, yes, I could…” Soos pondered over the idea as Mel ran off to the bathroom - apparently much more desperate than she’d been letting on.

Not long after, Soos headed back to Mr. Pines’ office - sorry, _his_ office. Even now, he had trouble fully understanding that _he_ is Mr. Mystery now. He’d been the handyman and unspoken protege for ten years. Sometimes he’d pinch himself to make sure this wasn’t all just a huge dream. ...Sometimes he’d pinch himself just for the hell of it, too, but usually on the gut. Made a mesmerizing ripple effect.

He made his way past some of his new exhibits - the Negative Twelve-Dollar Bill, the Beneveolent Gnome-of-Gnomes, the Anarcho-Syndicalist ATM Gremlins, and a blank space where he used to have _‘THE TRUTH BEHIND SEV’RAL TIMEZ!’,_ before he took it down due to complaints from grieving Sev'ral Timez fans - before coming up to the office door.

As soon as he opened the door, he could see an unwelcome guest. A small raptor, with a distinct black stripe down its side and about the size of a large chicken, with its face pressed against the office safe, fiddling about with the dial. The office window behind it was wide open, blasting cool summer air into Soos’ face as he entered, blowing Mr. Pines’ fez off his head.

“What the- _HEY!_ Get outta here, you adorable little thief!” he immediately yelled, running up to the little dinosaur safecracker to chase it out of the office. He likes dinos as much as the next guy, but this is Mr. Pines’ office, and Mr. Pines is a bro. Bros before dinos!

The mini-raptor knew it stood no chance against a giant, raging force of nature such as Soos, and screeched in panic, darting away from the safe and out the window, its claws chittering against the floor the whole way. But as Soos ran up to the window to close it tight, he caught sight of the raptor bounding away through the woods, and something about it seemed familiar...

“...Eh, probably nothing,” Soos dismissed the thought, closing the window. He’d seen dozens of dinos in those old mines he explored with the Pines, could have been any one of them. ...Maybe he should have tried to catch it. A cute little raptor would make a great mascot. ...Not as good as Questiony the Question Mark, but you know, getting there.

He turned around to recover Mr. Pines’ fez, but stopped about halfway down the office - he’d been doing this at least once every time he came here. Up on the wall to his right, he’d mounted a big map of the world. Soos had been meticulously keeping track of the two Mr. Pineses’ adventures across the world, marking their path and all the towns and cities they’d visited - including Townsville, Australia, where they are now.

Soos sighed. If only Mr. Pines was here now. When he finally comes back to the Shack, Soos had considered tossing the fez right back on his head and begging him to become Mr. Mystery again. No-one could ever know this place half as well as him.

...Well, to do that, it might be a good idea to actually pick up the fez from the hall. He briefly reached up to brush through his hair while it was still hatless. He’d been growing it a bit over the last year, because people kept thinking he was bald under whatever hat he was wearing. Plus, Dipper could pull off the look pretty well, and he was only thirteen. Stands to reason that when he’s older, it’ll be the look to go for! One of these days, W-necks will be in, just as Pacifica said!

With that mental note, and went back out into the hall to collect his fez - and as he did so, a figure walked around the corner.

“Hey, Soos,” the voice of Wendy Corduroy spoke up, immediately grabbing Soos’ attention. Placing the hat back on his head, he turned to look at her. The way she’d greeted him didn’t sound as chill as usual, and neither did her expression. She was standing with her arms folded, straight as a pillar. She was dressed in the usual way, with Dipper’s pine tree hat atop her head - though a while ago she’d decided to be reverse-Soos and cut her hair shorter, letting it fall just to shoulder-length.

“Wendy, dude! Wendude!” Soos greeted back, pointing with a finger-gun.

“Soos, we need to talk,” she said, walking at him with a sense of unusual urgency. Soos’ playful pose and expression disappeared, as he remembered what he’d promised Melody not five minutes ago.

“What happenstance! I, too, was just looking for you. Shall we step into Mr. Pines’ abode?” he said, trying to sound fancy. The redheaded teenager simply rolled her eyes at him as she stepped into the office. He followed, closing the door behind him.

“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Corduroy!” Soos continued with his ‘bossly’ act as he sat down on his desk chair, hearing it creak under his weight. “May I interest you in a… a… 30-year-old Smez?”

Soos held out the old dog-headed Smez dispenser he’d found in that bunker. Not ideal, but the only thing he had on the desk that he could offer her.

“Ah… nah, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Soos said as he pressed down on the dog's head to insert another ancient Smez candy into his mouth. He’s surprised he hasn’t eaten all these already. Still pretty dusty, but he’d learned to appreciate it. Gives them a unique texture. “Sho…” he continued while chewing, “what sheemsh to be the problem?”

“Dude, you know what the problem is. Candy.”

“Oh, you _do_ want shome?”

“No, not-” Wendy stopped to sigh, massaging her forehead. “Candy _Chiu._ ”

Soos swallowed what remained of the Smez. “Sorry, I don’t think I got any chewy candy. Think I ate all the candy corn I was s’posed to be saving for Summerween.”

“Soos!” Wendy stepped forward, “take this seriously, geez! Candy Chiu, as in the girl who spent all weekend rigging up a sound system and light show in her bedroom to show what she could pull off. She worked _hard_ , man! You gotta at least give her a chance! Besides, this place could really do with some edge. No offence, man, but like, it’s kinda gotten liiiiittle… _ehhh_ ,” she explained, finishing with an expression like she’d finished eating an expensive but disgusting dinner.

“ _Ehhh’?_ ...How?” Soos asked, now sitting up straight, genuinely curious.

“Well… you know, first you take down all the spooky taxidermy horrors, then you keep tryin’ to talk to the tourists like they’re your best buddies or whatever, you have a ‘birthday party quota’ for each month… it’s like this place is turning into that Hoo-Ha animatronic nightmare at the mall. Which _is_ admittedly pretty scary, but not, like, in a cool way.”

“I know, right!” Soos said, excitedly, “love that place, love it! And not just ‘cause it’s where I had the best date ever with Mellow-Dellow! Actually, come to think of it, didn’t Mr. Pines try to steal the animatronics from there the same day? Maybe I should get some of those…”

“ _Soos!_ You’re not listening!” Wendy spoke up, leaning in even further.

“O-okay, okay!” Soos relented, chuckling awkwardly, holding his hands out in front of him. “So maybe I mighta taken a different strat, maybe it’s not as ‘edgy’ as it used to be, but the customers like that sorta thing! You saw how, like, every day there used to be kids, sometimes adults, runnin’ out the building in tears. That’s all a thing of the past now! _And_ profits are on the up because of it!”

“Soos, my dude, my man, have you even checked your finances lately? Profits are _down_. Have been for months,” Wendy said, as she held up her phone, displaying an online chart, marked ‘Mystery Shack Profits, September - May’ - with a huge zig-zagging line on a downward trend. “Oh yeah, pro tip - might not be a great idea to email your business figures to random people on the internet who ask for ‘em. Just sayin’.”

Soos frowned for a bit, as he fully comprehended what was in front of him. “Huh. So _that’s_ who those 'LegitOregonTaxPeople @ DaGubmint.Com' people were. And they seemed so legit! Why else would they put ‘legit’ in their name? That can’t be right, though, that black line on the bottom is s’posed to be on the top!”

Wendy went silent for a second as her brow perked up, as she glanced off to the side. Then she slapped a palm over face, releasing a heavy huff. “ _Soos_! Have you been reading all your figures upside-down?!”

More silence.

“...Mmmmmighta been. But usually I don’t bother with all this money stuff, anyway; Mel handles the finances. I handle the wonder!”

“Uggggh, my _GOD!”_ Wendy groaned in classic teenager fashion, throwing her hands down. “Listen, Soos, you’re not gettin’ me, man! It’s great you’re tryin’ to be ‘honest’ and all, but… look, you know I follow the Oregon Tourist Trail on Blavver, right? You don’t think people _knew_ Stan was a con artist? Of course they knew, _everyone_ knew! But _that’s_ why they liked this place! That’s how the Mystery Shack became the second-most popular tourist trap in Roadkill County, behind Mystery Mountain - and _they_ only got there by _murdering tourists_ and turning them into mummies! People _like_ it when some jerk tries to obviously swindle them, it’s refreshing! It’s not fake, like in all those other tourist traps! And, yanno, maybe the occasional ‘horror story’ from this place did some good, as long as no-one got _really_ hurt! Stan was just as part of the attraction as everything else!”

It was now Soos began to feel a heat inside him - it was a rare feeling, one he saved up. But Wendy was acting weird. This isn't like her, she’s supposed to be chill. Why does she even care about all this, anyway? His eyes narrowed and he started frowning. _Big_ frowns.

“Oh. Okay. So you think I need to act more like a jerk, is that it? Well, maybe I don’t wanna! Maybe if acting like a jerk is what makes money, then I don’t _wanna_ make money! How’s that?!”

Wendy stood back a little, alarmed by Soos’ sudden change in tone; now she was holding up her hands. “Soos, dude, calm down. I’m not saying you need to be a jerk, just… you don’t need to get so hung-up on bein’ so ‘kid-friendly’, like, _all_ the time. I’m just tryin’ to say, Candy’s idea could be really cool, could show people this is still a serious place!”

“What, are you saying I don’t take this business seriously?! Of course I do, Mr. Pines _trusted me_ to look after it for him! Maybe I screw up all the time, so what?! I _tried!_ He screwed up too, but he kept going!” Soos began to raise his voice, now standing up. Wendy continued backing away. “Since when did you start caring about the Shack, anyway?! You only work here over the summer; you literally just came back days ago, and you only started in the first place ‘cause you didn’t want to go to logging camp! You _hated_ working here! Mr. Pines had to _bribe_ you to attend that wax museum re-opening! Now you’ve started saying mean things about Melody on that stupid Blavver page and you don’t even wanna talk to her, ‘cause she’s apparently ‘sanitizing’ the place! Why?! I don’t get it, you’re the… you’re the freakin’ cashier! _Why do you care?!_ ”

Soos stopped to catch his breath, in the hopes that that might freeze the conversation long enough for that horrible angry feeling inside him to go away. He doesn’t want to be angry, he hates being angry. And he especially doesn’t want to be angry in front of one of his best friends, but… she was being stupid. He just doesn’t understand where all this was coming from, and what she’s implying.

Now it seemed Wendy felt that heat inside her - her expression quickly twisted into a furious one, and she stepped forward, clenching her fists.

“Oh! Okay! So _that’s_ how it is, is it?! What, because I’m a dumb, minimum-wage employee, my opinion doesn’t matter?! Did it never occur to you that maybe working here was the best decision I ever made in my sad life, ‘cause I got to meet the people _I’d survive a literal apocalypse with?!_ Maybe _that_ made me start caring that this stupid hall of made-up junk survives the summer?! Huh?! Did _THAT_ ever occur to you?!”

“It’s… _NOT…_ STUPID! And it’s _NOT_ made-up! It’s _HONEST!”_ Soos yelled back at her, now spraying spittle onto her face. She paid it no mind.

“OH MY _GOD_ , LITERALLY _NO-ONE CARES!”_ Wendy now sprayed back at him, getting right up in his face. “YOU ONLY STARTED CARING WHEN YOU BROUGHT YOUR DUMB GIRLFRIEND OVER FROM PORTLAND! WHY DO YOU THINK SHE NEVER TOLD YOU ABOUT YOUR FIGURES?! **SHE WANTS TO TURN THIS PLACE INTO SOME FAKE FAMILY FUNHOUSE!** **_WOULD STAN LIKE THAT?!”_ **

Silence.

The two of them stayed locked in place for what must have been an entire minute. Soos’ anger seemed to dissipate in an instant; that heat was gone, and in its place was a sharp sting. A sting that he felt move up to his face.

“Wendy… h-how could you say that…?” he mumbled under his breath, as tears began to roll down his eyes.

Just like that, Wendy’s own anger apparently vanished - her face turned to concern, and she backed away, defensively.

“Oh… o-oh my God, Soos, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, I-I just… I couldn’t…”

To hear this coming from _Wendy_ , of all people… it was far worse than it could have been from anyone else. They’d conquered the bunker together. Now she was suggesting Melody - the one girl who could ever understand him, the one who'd gotten herself caught up in Weirdmageddon purely because she wanted to see him in person again - was lying to him on purpose? It's not just her, either; the mere suggestion that Stan, who’d trusted him more than anyone, would hate the way he’s looking after his business was probably the clincher, the sword to that particular… glass rope, or whatever. He was too distraught to even think of a clever metaphor. How could Wendy turn on him like this? They're supposed to be... like, comrades in arms. That meant not assuming the worst about each other. Melody might not have told him the truth about his profits, but she must have a good reason. Wendy could at least _try_ to talk to her, rather than make up conspiracy theories about her behind their back like every other anonymous jerk on the internet, and then rub salt in the wound by suggesting he'd be an insult to his idol Stan.

“S-soos… you okay, man?” Wendy said, her voice beginning to crack. “I said I’m sorry…”

Soos put that heat right back on. It was time to remember what Mabel had done. Be like Stan. Do what has to be done. Wendy had crossed a line.

**_“You’re fired.”_ **

“...What? S-soos, what’s gotten into you?”

“Did I stutter, Wendy? You said you wanted a jerk, _you got a jerk!_ You’re fired. _Fired._ F-I-R-E-D, _FIRED!”_

Wendy gasped, slowly backing away, the same way she’d backed away from so many monsters. Now tears were starting to form in her eyes. “But… b-but but-”

“No ‘buts’ except YOURS out of _MY_ OFFICE! Now **_GET OUT!”_ **he bellowed, pointing at the door.

Wendy didn’t say anything. Her expression returned to some form of anger, but she stayed quiet. Sniffling and wiping some of the water from her eye, she stomped out of the office, slamming the door shut behind her.

* * *

 **“** **_WENDY!_ ** **You’re home early!”** said the enormous patriarch of the Corduroy family, ‘Manly’ Dan, as he knelt down, rummaging through one of the cupboards in his kitchen.

“ _I know_ . I wasn’t feeling well,” Wendy replied, deadpan, as she made a beeline for the refrigerator. The Corduroy clan’s rustic cabin in the woods was pretty good at making you feel warm - mostly because Dan always uses a real fire, but also because its residents exuded so much testosterone, their hot blood radiated throughout the house. _Can_ be energizing, but right now heat is the last thing Wendy needed; she opened the refrigerator and stuck her head inside it for at least twenty seconds. Ah yeah, that’s the stuff. The fact she’d been crying a little on the way back from her _former_ workplace actually helped - made her whole face feel colder.

 **“HEY, Marcus! Where’d I put the thing?!”** Dan called out to Wendy’s brother Marcus - the tallest one, the one with the moustache hairs and that hair he probably can’t even see out of. Currently sitting at the dinner table, struggling with some papers.

“Um… what thing, dad?” he answered.

 **“You know, THE THING! The… the little… th-the THING,** **_THE DANG THING!”_ **

“Uhhh, I dunno, have you checked the top cabinets? Ya mighta left it next to the other thing.”

 **“** **_NO,_ ** **I already looked there, I only found five other things that have got NOTHIN’ to do with the thing I need!”**

After she’d cooled her head to her satisfaction - there were even little frost crystals growing where her dried-up tears had been - Wendy emerged from the refrigerator, clutching a chilled can of Pitt Cola. Cracking it open, she immediately began chugging it down… and chugging it, and chugging it, and chugging it some more, emptying the entire can in one go. She burped, spitting out the complimentary peach pit in the process, before casually crushing the can against her forehead and tossing it in the basketball hoop above the trash.

“Heyyy, nice crush-n-throw combo, sis!” Marcus said, cheerfully. Wendy tried to ignore him and walk straight past on the way back to her room, but he apparently didn’t get the hint. “Oh, by the way, have you seen the thing? And can you help me with _this_ thing? By ‘this thing’, I mean my ethics homework. ...It’s extra credit stuff. I’m working on Just War theory!”

“Respectively, no, and try brushing your hair outta your face for once in your life,” Wendy said, still without any kind of inflection. “Hey dad, I’m goin’ to my room, probably for the rest of the week, if not my life. Don’t bother calling me for dinner, I’m not hungry.”

Dan scratched his beard in thought for a moment, before waving it off. **“Eh, fair enough! More** **_BLOODY VENISON_ ** **for us, eh, Marcus?”** he said, offering his son a high-five - his huge, muscular arm being long enough to reach him from where he was crouched.

Wendy turned to face her dad one last time. “Oh, and watch out for that ceiling.”

 **“What ceiling?”** Dan questioned as he stood up from his crouch, accidentally slamming his head directly into the ceiling above him. **_“OW!”_ ** he cried, as a mighty shake reverberated throughout the entire house, knocking a ceiling beam down from its supports. The beam crashed into the dinner table - already bisected and held together by screws and glue - startling Marcus and sending his ethics homework flying.

 **“DANG-NABBIT,** **_NOT AGAIN!_ ** **MARCUS, HELP ME FIX THIS!”**

She made it to her room, at last. Slamming her door shut so loud it rivalled the collapsing support beam from earlier, she threw herself onto her bed, face-down. _Finally_ , she was out of sight of her stupid dad and her stupid brothers. She could be all emotional now. She could mull over the hell she’d just created back at the Mystery Shack.

Wendy couldn’t believe this was happening.

One remark. One dumb, stupid, ill-conceived remark that she immediately apologizes for, and she’s lost her whole summer. Unless she can somehow find a new job, dad’s almost certainly gonna force her to go to logging camp - no way is he gonna tolerate her just lazing around rotting. That means she won’t see Stan, and she won’t see Dipper and Mabel. Hell, she’d even be bummed out about missing Ford, even though she barely knew him, beyond being some kind of super-scientist. Maybe he’d be smart enough to invent a ‘go back and undo all this’ machine. ...Apparently time travel _is_ a thing, but… nah. She’d probably screw up in some new and exciting way instead.

How the hell was she even gonna fix this? _Could_ it be fixed? ...Does she even _want_ to fix it? Nah. She doesn’t need Soos, anyway, or his girlfriend. She could go the rest of her life without talking to him ever again! No more dumb puns, no more out-of-nowhere bear hugs, no more sweet-ass DJing at Shack parties, no more stories about the pranks they’ve pulled, no more having each other’s back…

Wendy could feel pinpricks in her eyes yet again. 

Having been in this situation before, she knew what to do. She grabbed the sides of her pillow and clutched them hard around her head, muffling the sound of her sobbing as she used it as a tear sponge. She couldn’t help but feel they were crocodile tears. Crying because she’d been a huge jerk. She _is_ a jerk. Probably always has been.

Almost half an hour later, she’d managed to stop crying, and just sat silently, cross-legged, on her bed, staring at her TV on the opposite wall. The TV she used to watch crappy old B-movies with Dipper on, the little dork. ...That was what she was trying to get at, the Shack is like B-movies; people only like them because they’re bad! It’s ironic! ...Though when she puts it like that, maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised Soos took it the wrong way; poor guy was never one for irony or sarcasm.

She’d pulled out her phone and laid it front of her, considering who to call about this. Ugh, this phone. If it wasn’t for that stupid Blavver page, this never would have happened. She just had to go on there in that classic ‘anonymity-shielded internet jerk’ mode and speak her mind about Melody. And, like, she didn’t _hate_ Melody, it’s just… Soos had been acting all different ever since she entered his life. There’s no way the old Soos would turn the Shack into what it is now, he’d probably laugh at it. Right? She’d always quietly suspected that Melody’s whole ‘cuter version of Soos’ deal was just an act to wrangle him in, but, like… really, did she have any evidence? It was just a gut feeling, made worse by all the complaints from ‘long-time trail followers’ on Blavver.

Wendy tried to fidget about. Maybe she was just jealous. Soos could get a girlfriend, but she couldn’t get a boyfriend. A _good_ boyfriend, not like all those failed crushes.

Before she could descend even deeper into this hell that is self-introspection, the phone began to vibrate. It was… Dipper?

Without hesitation, she snatched up the phone, answering the call. She’d planned on answering at lightspeed, but somehow Dipper beat her to it. He sounded… unusually worried. Like, even by Dipper standards.

“Wendy! Oh my God, you’re okay! I was super worried about you, I thought you might have _died!_ ...This _is_ you talking now, right?”

“Um… yes? ‘Sup, Dipper?” she asked, baffled.

“Phew, okay… wow, you sound fine, too. You recovered quick. ...Guess I shoulda seen this coming, actually. I mean, healthcare has come a _long way_ since 1918. Even in this country. The likelihood of a pandemic on the same mass scale is very low.”

“Recovered? Dipper, what are you talking about?”

A pause. Wendy could hear some papers rustling in the background.

“Wait. You mean you _haven’t_ got Spanish Flu?”

“What?! ...No, no, you dork! _Obviously_ I haven’t! I don’t even know what that is!”

“Huh. That’s weird… not Weird weird, just normal weird.”

Wendy’s brow lowered. Something wasn’t quite right here…

“Dipper, what’s going on? Who told you I had this… Spanish Flu or whatever?”

“Oh, uh… right!” Dipper said as he took a deep breath, obviously about to explain something in technical terms. Wendy just paid attention. “Grunkle Stan and Great-Uncle Ford have arrived in Australia to investigate some serious Weird phenomena going on - specifically, they wanna find the lost town of Coiled Springs!"

Dipper now had Wendy's full attention; she shot up straight, holding the phone closer. "Dude, hold up... Coiled Springs? I've heard of that place!"

"Wait, you have?"

"Yeah! Yanno my great-great-great grandpa Archie?"

"Geez, how could I forget about him..." Dipper shivered on the other end, "...poor guy. Spends years building a mansion for the Northwests and got an axe to the head in a mudslide for his troubles. Not a nice way to go. Still kind of a jerk for trying to turn that party to wood, though."

Wendy had heard about the incident at Northwest Manor and how apparently it was Archie haunting the place, so she opted not to delve any further into that. "Yeah, yeah, him. Anyway, my dad said he had a brother, Constantine. After Archie died, Const went down under to start over, became a turquoise miner. Headed over to Coiled Springs - buncha shacks in the middle of the desert run by some British guy and a buncha local convicts. The British guy mighta been some kinda cult leader, 'cause Const wrote a load of weird letters about... like, piercing barriers and rising coils. Half of 'em weren't even English. Then one day they stopped. No-one ever heard from him again, or the town. It vanished or something."

"Hmm, interesting..." Wendy could hear Dipper writing something down. "Ford said it might have disappeared in a rift... hey, do you still have those letters?"

"Uh... yeah, my dad keeps 'em around somewhere."

"Great, Ford would _love_ to see those! Uh, yeah, going back to the Flu thing - they needed some extra hands, plus they knew the could take way too long, so they asked Mabel and I to fly over and help 'em out - _obviously_ we said yes! But we figured our parents wouldn’t let us go to a foreign country without some adult supervision on the flight over, so we asked Soos to come with, too. He said yes - even offered to call in a favour to pay for our tickets - and then I asked if you could come, but he said you’d caught the Spanish Flu and couldn’t make it, so we gave your spot to Melody instead.”

“He said _WHAT?!”_ Wendy blurted out. Realizing she’d done so, she moderated her voice to a whisper. “That… that _backstabbing little_ …”

She could hear Dipper gulp nervously on the other side. “Um… Wendy, what did you say? I didn’t pick that up.”

Wendy exaggeratedly started coughing and clearing her throat. “Hmm! Nothing, nothing, just… dust in the air, yanno how it is here in lumber country. Sawdust and… stuff.”

“Eheh, yeah…” Dipper chuckled. “So, um… since you haven’t got the Spanish Flu after all, does this mean you’re coming?”

Though Dipper couldn’t see, Wendy’s face turned to a look of furious determination. She didn’t even need to _think_ about this. “Well, duh, _of course_ I’m coming! I haven’t been to another country since I was, like, six! And Australia is basically the coolest country ever! I’ve done a lot of camping, but never in a desert! With kangaroos! And hoop snakes! And those… little crabs that hide in shallow pools of water, and if you step on them, it’s literally the most painful thing in the world, and your brain could, like, explode from sensory overload! _SPLA-KOOSH!_ ” she said, mimicking what she figured an exploding brain might sound like.

“ _ALRIGHT_ , that’s awesome! I’ll go tell Soos right away, so he can cover your-”

“WAIT!” Wendy cut in, instinctively clutching the phone tighter. “Um… how about we _don’t_ tell Soos about this? I can pay for my own ticket, I’m… like, _almost_ an adult. I can drive a car now, at least. That’s an adult thing.”

Dipper paused on the other end, clearly thinking. Wendy began to sweat a little - Dipper’s a thinky kinda kid, he can probably tell something’s not right here. “...Huh. O...kay? Wendy, uh… you and Soos _are_ cool, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, we’re fine! ...Probably. Look, dude, just lemme know when your flight is, I’ll be there! I _promise.”_

“Alright, I gotcha! But wait… what about your dad? Shouldn’t he know about this?”

Wendy stopped to think for just a little itty bitty microsecond, but soon regained that determined look. “Dipper, dude, seriously. I’m not _that_ irresponsible. Obviously I’m gonna tell him I’m going. I don’t care if he gives me permission or not, though. I _am_ going. I’ll break outta my room if I have to. I don’t even care if I get grounded for the rest of summer. I _will_ be there! If I’m not there, you have my permission to hold this over me for the rest of my life!”

“Heh, _I’d_ never do that, but just don’t let Mabel get the idea… anyway, thanks, Wendy! Don't forget to bring those letters! I’ll see you at San Francisco International!”

 _“I’ll be there!”_ Wendy repeated. ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H KPUV PU AOL OHUK PZ DVYAO ADV PU AOL WLAAPUN GVV!


	4. The Diagram Said There'd Be Arrows!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note - this chapter contains an illustration! I'll admit I traced a little from official references, because I'm not a very good artist and I wanted to keep it as close to the show's style as possible - the intent was mostly to show how Dipper and Mabel had changed in the last year in-story (though he doesn't have the hat yet). I might do some more character drawings in later chapters; who knows?

“Bye, mom! Bye, dad! Thanks again for the lift! We’ll text you when we get there!”

“I’ll text in the mornings, Dipper can do nights! He _definitely_ agreed to that!”

The Pines twins stood amongst crowds of arrivals and departures at the busy terminal entrance of San Francisco International Airport, struggling to dodge and weave their fellow travelers as they chased after their car, waving goodbye to their parents. Mr. and Mrs. Pines waved back, but couldn’t afford to stop amidst the heavy traffic; it wasn’t long before they, too, vanished into the airport hustle-and-bustle.

Dipper remained smiling, but it took on a cocky air for a moment. “Heh, I still can’t believe we talked them into this…”

“As if! I was all set to flood the house with my _ocular cannons!”_ Mabel said, sounding mildly disappointed she didn’t. Dipper knew what she meant - for years, his sister prided herself on her powers of emotional manipulation; while she’d certainly cut back on that since last summer, sometimes it was necessary to break out the old habits - all for the greater good, of course.

They rolled their luggage behind them, as they headed inside the terminal. Mabel's luggage was of course much larger than Dipper’s, and she had an entire backpack’s worth of extra stuff on top of that - lots of scrapbooking materials and crafting supplies, which probably meant they’d spend an eternity at the security checkpoint like every other time they’d been to the airport. 

At least this time she didn’t bring as much yarn, since dry season in the Australian outback is _not_ sweater weather. Not that this stopped her from making her own clothes, though - she’d made herself some custom bright pink overalls, with star-shaped buttons, matching her equally pink walking boots. Dipper had to get some new threads of his own to convince Mabel that she needed to dress a bit more practically for this trip (which, to be fair, he needed to do anyway since he’d long since grown out of his old summer wear); he also had a pair of sturdy walking boots, plus some green utility pants and a navy t-shirt. Seemed counterproductive to _not_ wear shorts, until you remember that there’s scorpions hiding in every crevice.

As they walked among the crowds, Dipper pulled a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket. It was time to be Mr. Schedule. “Alright, now remember - our flight to Brisbane is at 8:30 PM, it is currently…” he stopped to check the clock on a nearby timetable, “...6:18, that gives us two hours and twelve minutes, approximately. Allowing for the usual half-hour delay incurred by your deadly art supplies...”

“Pff, I prefer the term ‘Weapons of Mass Imagination!’”

“...We have one hour and forty-two minutes to kill. I suggest we split that into a quarter-half-quarter. First of all, we need to find Soos, Wendy and Melody, who should be around here somewhere. Once that’s out of the way, we can-”

Then, as if on cue, Dipper could hear familiar voices somehow breaking the ambient mass of the crowd around him. He stopped in his tracks to focus his attention on where they were coming from; based on the trajectory of the vibrations in the air, he could tell they were around the corner of one of the baggage check-in areas…

“...Nice to see you, too… got cured of _Spanish Flu_ pretty fast…” he could hear fragments of a female voice, sounding rather agitated.

“Well, didn’t… obviously a vacation with me would… not ‘edgy’ enough for you, little miss Sharpey McCuttingedge…” fragments of a male voice responded, equally agitated.

In the corner of his eye, Dipper saw Mabel perk up, having apparently noticed the voices, herself. She gasped with delight. “Do mine ears deceive me, or IS _THAT-”_

Dipper quickly blocked her mouth with a palm. “ _Shhh!_ I think it is, but something’s going on…”

Inching closer to the corner, he peeked around, and his hopes - and fears - were confirmed. Soos, Wendy and Melody were there; that was the good news. The bad news was the former two appeared to be up in each other’s faces, while Melody stood between them, trying to massage away a nasty headache. Dipper’s gaze was naturally drawn to Wendy first - old habits - and he noticed she was wearing red flannel instead of the usual green, almost matching her current mood. Meanwhile, Soos seemed to be wearing a version of his old handyman outfit with a purple shirt and no hat, while Melody was apparently wearing cowboy boots, short shorts and a collared shirt with a blocky, mostly-orange pattern; Dipper didn't have too much time to analyze it.

“I can’t believe you, man!” Wendy said, throwing her arms to her sides, “I _said_ I was _sorry!_ Geez, how many times do I have to repeat it?! _Get over it,_ already!”

“Oh, _‘get over it’?!”_ Soos shot back, poking Wendy in the shoulder. “You’re the one who was so mad that I invited Mel along that you drove all the way here behind my back! If you’da asked _nicely,_ I woulda covered your ticket, too!”

The redheaded teen slapped his finger down. _“Really?!_ This has got nothing to do with Melody, I don’t care that she’s here! This is about you lying to Dipper to cheat me out of an awesome vacation with our crew! I mean, _seriously?!_ I thought you had my back, dude!”

“And I thought _you_ had _my_ back, _dude,_ but I guess facing the W-word together wasn’t good enough for you!”

 _“E-NOUGH!”_ Melody suddenly belted out, drawing the attention of a few bystanders. The anger evident on Soos and Wendy’s faces temporarily dissipated, as they turned to their irate companion. _“Ugh,_ you two are gonna give me a migraine! If you’re gonna be like this for the whole trip, I’m not even gonna bother!”

“She started it!”

“I did _NOT!”_

“I don’t _care_ who started it!” Melody said, in a way any child would recognize from any parent, “You’re _BOTH_ being stupid!”

“Umm… hi, guys?” Dipper finally decided to cut in, revealing himself, offering a weak wave. Mabel, following his cue, did the same - this must be just as odd to her as it is to him, if not more so. She’s not even trying to rush up and hug them like she usually does…

The trio’s attention snapped straight to them.

 _“‘SUP, DUDES?”_ the three of them all said, simultaneously, with possibly the most awkward ‘forced nonchalance’ expressions Dipper had ever seen, complete with their eyes rapidly darting to each other and many droplets of sweat being exchanged.

“Uh… did we come in at a bad time?”

“No! Nope, it’s totally fine, everything’s fine!” Soos said.

“Y-yeah, it’s all good, chiller than my Zodiac up in here!” Wendy added.

Melody didn’t even say anything, merely offered a weak shrug; Dipper never claimed to be good at reading emotions, but even he could tell what the shrug meant: ‘it’s not good, but I can’t say why’.

“Well, in that case…” Mabel said as she stepped forward, holding her arms wide, “who wants a mighty _MABEL HUG?!_ ”

Just like that, she was back to her usual self. She rushed at Soos and Wendy, and as though they were racing, they rushed at her, almost knocking each other down as she delivered the hug to both of them. Dipper could practically see their anger melt away as she did so - all was right with the world.

 _“Damn,_ Mabes! Have you been workin’ out?” Wendy said, sounding a little strained, “it’s like I’m being taken to jail in the world’s cutest set of handcuffs!”

“I trained with the elite HUG POLICE! I am judge, jury and _hugs-ecutioner!”_ Mabel declared - and out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Melody, still adjusting to this sudden hug storm - even from where he was standing, Dipper could see a glint in his sister’s eye.

“Uh-oh, _red alert!”_ she said, stepping back to face Melody, “We’ve got a code four here - grumping around without a license! The sentence is TEN YEARS OF CUDDLES!”

Melody put on her smile of determination and held her own arms wide. “You’ll never take me alive, _pig!”_

“HA! Joke’s on you, pigs are the _best animal!_ Or at least in the top five!”

Dipper couldn’t help but laugh at the sight, as Melody braced herself for the inevitable hug like she was dealing with a charging bull.

“Woah… I think we’re witnessing the creation of a cuddle singularity, dudes,” Soos commented, awestruck. “It’s _beautiful…”_

“Yeah, try not to look directly at it, you might go blind!” Dipper remarked, giving Soos an affectionate punch on the arm.

“Dipper! Heh, sorry dude, got a little distracted!”

“Yeah, my esteemed sister has a talent for that sort of thing,” Dipper said, as he took a moment to scrutinize the new Mr. Mystery in front of him. “...Are you wearing a W-neck?”

Soos glanced down at his purple shirt, which was indeed a ‘W-neck’; though it still had a ring around the neck so the middle of the W wouldn’t just flop down like Soos’ homemade W-necks. “Oh yeah! Turns out, I wasn’t the only dude who had that idea! I’m tellin’ ya, one o’ these days, it’s gonna be ‘in’!”

“Heh. For some reason, I was expecting you to show up in the full Mr. Mystery ensemble, with the fez and everything.”

“Pff, yeah,” Wendy chipped in, dismissively “sticks to that old funhouse like glue.”

Soos was apparently irritated at this remark, and immediately raised a finger to retort. Dipper’s own face screwed up in confusion - this was starting to get ridiculous, _clearly_ something was going on between these two. He was worried he’d act all awkward upon seeing Wendy again, even now that he was over that hopeless crush from last summer, but it seemed his curiosity overpowered any such tendencies.

“So, Soos, Wendy!” Dipper began, loudly clearing his throat; he could see behind them, Mabel and Melody had finished their hug deathmatch and were approaching to listen, looking slightly concerned. “How’ve you two been doing lately? The Shack’s still standing, right?” he said, jokingly, hoping his smirk would tip them off.

The two of them silently glanced away from each other, once again trying to force an air of nonchalance.

“It’s been, uh… it’s definitely a Shack! Still… all Shacked up in there!” Soos said, awkwardly swinging a fist.

“Yyyyep, nothin’ much interesting on our end. _Super_ -boring without you around, gotta be honest,” Wendy added. _“Anywayyyys,_ how’s things been going for you guys?”

“Eh, more of the same,” Dipper answered, shrugging. “Haven’t been getting any more popular at school, but that’s pretty normal now. I _did_ try to start this paranormal investigations club, but the other kids just spent our meetings talking about movie tropes. The one time I got two of ‘em to go with me on a Weirdness hunt, one of ‘em was basically forced to go by his mom, and the other only showed up ‘cause I was paying for lunch.”

 _“Ouch!_ Sorry to hear that, dude,” Soos said.

“Yeah, those close-minded losers don’t know what they’re missin’!” Wendy added.

“Thanks, but it’s really not that big a deal. I’ve also been helping Great-Uncle Ford with his research; we’ve been working on the anatomy of the multiverse! We call it ‘Tower Theory’; pretty catchy, huh?”

“'Tower Theory'?” Wendy repeated, “No way am I gonna ever understand all this multiverse stuff, but it _sounds_ dope! You could make a movie outta that!"

Soos circled a hand around in thought. "Yeah, one of those... thinky movies, with slow-mo, and stories that begin at the end and end at the middle and middles after the credits roll, and the ending makes people yell at each other over the internet for years!"

Dipper nodded with a smirk, hands on hips, feeling at least a _little_ proud that his friends were interested in the research he’d been doing with Ford; that, and from the looks of things he’d defused whatever weird feud was going on between Soos and Wendy. For now. Glancing between them, he noticed his sister had gone unusually quiet since her dynamic entrance, almost as if she was waiting for Dipper to get his fill of attention.

“Say, Mabel!” Dipper drew everyone’s attention to her, “aren’t you gonna tell ‘em about what you’ve been doing?”

"Ohhhh... nnnnothing too exciting, really,” she replied, trying to wave the question off. “Just been chugging along like a choo-choo train!"

"Aw, come on, there's gotta be something, hambone! You're always doing crazy stuff!" Soos said.

Mabel clucked her tongue, wagging a pointed finger at Soos as if to say ‘you got me there’; still felt a little forced… "Yyyyep, you're right, I was just testing you! I just have... _sooooo_ many stories, it's like... we'd be here all day. What's left of it, anyway. I just don't wanna take up all your time, yanno?"

Wendy chuckled, pretending to be nervous. "Heh, okay, who are you and what have you done with Mabel?"

“She shot her out of an airlock!” Dipper threw in.

“Huh?” Melody went, confused. Dipper winced upon seeing the look on her face - he kept forgetting that Mel wasn’t one of the original Mystery Crew; as far as he knew, her only experience with the paranormal was killer animatronics. All this multiverse stuff is gonna fly right over her head.

“Don’t worry, _that_ Mabel was the most evil Mabel in the multiverse!” Mabel ‘clarified’, cheerfully, not understanding this at all. They were lucky that nobody else in this public and very busy airport terminal was listening to them blabber about Weirdness; but then again, when was the last time _he_ ever stopped to listen to some random departures at the airport talk to each other? And if someone _was_ eavesdropping, would they even believe them? Unlikely.

“But yeah, like…” she continued, “I’ve been working on myself a lot! I took up yoga, art therapy, mixed martial arts... you shoulda seen me at the junior MMA finals last week, I took out the champ with a perfectly-executed deadlift suplex!”

"Woah- _oah_ , Mabel's turning into a real badass!” Wendy said, making a few supportive punching gestures; and stopped to see Soos looking at her with a perturbed expression, holding a hand out to the kids. “...Oh, don’t look at me like that, man! They’re _real_ teenagers now, we can use swears around them!”

Dipper nervously chuckled again, rubbing his arm. “ _...Maaaaybe_ just stick with the lesser swears for now. I think mom and dad have noticed we've been getting more... 'lippy' since last summer."

He cleared his throat, looking back at the rather confused-looking Melody; he supposed he’d better address this now, while the feeling is fresh. “Anyway, Melody! Since you’re new to the ‘Crew’, as it were, you _do_ know the true purpose of our trip to Australia, right?”

The heavyset twenty-something folded her arms and nodded, retaining a sense of confidence that Dipper had seen before. “Don’t worry, uh… Dipper, right? Soos has told me everything, minus the… evil Mabel thing. I _did_ live in Gravity Falls for a few years, and got caught up in, uh… _the thing_ ‘cause I chose the worst possible time to see Soos in person again. Even ended up in… _his_ throne…” she described, shivering towards the end. _Everyone_ shivered, Dipper included. Anyone else who’d been there would. Dipper had no idea that Melody was there for Weirdmageddon, though; he’d always assumed she was out of town. Had Soos _known_ she was there at the time? He feels that if he _had_ known, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his usual Soos-ness intact, even in the face of the apocalypse.

Soon, however, Dipper locked eyes with Melody, and they both smiled; Dipper didn’t really know what to expect when it turned out she’d be coming along. Unlike Soos and Wendy, he’d never been on a Weirdness hunt with her, and if he was honest, he never really took her for the adventuring type. He was _still_ surprised how quick she was to defend them during the .GIFfany incident. Guess she can still hold more surprises on top of that.

Thinking about this made a powerful feeling swell inside him - it was that call to action that had inspired him so many times before. He’d felt it first when he found Journal 3, and while it’s never been any stronger, it’s gotten close. Coiled Springs was The Unknown - anything could be lying in wait for them; and if Ford’s theories about the multiverse were correct, every single stream of Weirdness leaking in from beyond got them closer to solidifying their whole theory; and if they could do that, then maybe the world at large would be ready to know, safe in the knowledge that it cannot be caught off-guard.

Dipper stood back up straight, as if to resume an important briefing - which this kinda _was_ now. He had some _words_ he needed to say. 

“Alright, so listen up, everyone, and _listen good!_ Remember; while this _is_ gonna be an awesome summer vacation, there is a greater purpose behind this adventure: _scientific discovery!_ Yes, we may have to get our fingernails dirty, break our backs a little, et cetera, et cetera, but trust me, it’s all for a good cause! If we can crack the mystery behind Coiled Springs, we’ll be one step closer to _true_ understanding! Most people are content to just let mysteries be mysteries; they see something Weird, they file it away to eat at their minds for the rest of time! But we’re _not_ most people! _Who are we?!”_

“The Mystery Crew!” Mabel called back.

_“And whadda we do?!”_

“Solve riddles!” Soos called.

“Punch monsters!” Wendy called.

 _“Follow the winds of change!”_ Melody called (now Dipper was _really_ getting impressed with how quickly she was taking to her new role).

_“And do we let anyone or anything stop us?!”_

“NO!” everyone yelled back.

“Not Gnomes?!”

“NO!”

_“Not ghosts?!”_

_“NO!”_

“Not LIVING NIGHTMARES?!”

**_“HELL, NO!”_ **

_“And when we get to Australia, WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?!”_

**_“SOLVE. THIS. MYSTERY!”_ **

Dipper felt a tear fall down his face. “You guys, I am _so_ proud of you. Now, let’s _GET ‘EM!”_

 _“CHAAAARGE!”_ Mabel shouted, pointing hard at the… hallway leading to the security checkpoint.

 **_“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”_ **She, Soos and Melody began yelling like mad, their faces bearing the expression of crazed warriors, as they ran further into the airport, unaware that their charge will shortly be anticlimactically stopped by the fact that their luggage is too big to qualify as a carry-on. They’ll be back here soon enough.

Dipper and Wendy weren’t willing to go _that_ far, but maybe they should have done - his little speech had caused a bit of a commotion - several other passengers were now looking at them, sharing concerned murmurs.

“Heh, okay… _wow._ They must think we’re _completely insane…”_ Dipper mused.

Wendy shrugged it off. “Eh, my family gets this reaction all the time…”

It was then, now that he was alone with Wendy (or as ‘alone’ as you can get in a crowded airport terminal), and cooling down from that rush, something popped into his head - that conversation over the phone they’d had a couple days ago.

“Oh, Wendy, I almost forgot! Did you remember to pick up those letters?”

Wendy paused, and… gasped, tugging at her collar. “What letters? Oh! Oooohhh… hmmm, I’m sorry, you kinda _lost me there…”_

Dipper reflexively slid a hand down his face, groaning in irritation. “UUUUGGGHH, _WENDY!”_

Then, as if a switch had been hit, Wendy’s face turned to a sly grin, and she laughed, ruffling Dipper’s hair. “Haha, _you dork!_ I totally had you! Dude, _of course_ I remembered to bring ‘em! Look, I’ll show ya!”

Wendy soon took off her backpack and opened it up, sliding out a bundle of antiquated letters, folded up and held together by a piece of string. “See? If you’re wondering how I got ‘em, I… well, you’re gonna be surprised, but I told my dad the truth. Kinda. I said this was an internship as a science assistant and my ‘new boss’ was interested in the letters. Oh, and before you ask, I paid for my ticket with the money left over from my share of that unicorn treasure. Guess those jerk-quines were good for something after all. Besides shielding the Shack, I mean.”

“Oh! Phew…” Dipper went, sighing with relief. He wasn’t sure why he’d ever doubted Wendy at all; there’s no way she’d forget something this important, let alone not cover all her bases. “We, uh, probably shouldn’t read ‘em here, though.”

Wendy’s expression darkened, and she slid the letters back inside her bag. “Don’t worry, I know. You should prob’ly read ‘em sooner rather than later, though. I had a peek at ‘em myself, and… I saw something bad. _Really_ bad. Like, I wasn’t _cursed_ from reading it, but… look, we can read ‘em together on the plane. You’ll know what I mean.”

Dipper gulped. He should have known this whole thing wouldn’t be as simple as he thought.

The taller girl’s smile returned in short order, and she rested a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. Phew, okay; if she’d done _this_ when he still had a crush on her, he’d be flushed like a tomato now, wringing his hands like a madman. Thankfully that _wasn’t_ the case now; he simply started sweating again and fidgeted with his fingers. ...Okay, maybe he flushed a _little._

“But hey,” she said, “‘til then, we should just relax. I know I could really relax right now. Oh, and before I forget…” Wendy reached up to her pine tree hat - which used to be Dipper’s - clearly with the intent to return it to him.

Dipper held up his hands, stopping her. “No! N-no, it’s fine. Thanks, but… somehow, I feel like you earned that hat. Besides, Grunkle Stan apparently got me a new one. ...I can only hope he paid for it.”

“Haha! _Not likely!”_ Wendy said, grinning and flicking the brim of _her_ hat.

* * *

The rest of their airport transfer went basically as expected, minus a brief hiccup at security when Mabel had to do an inventory check of all her travel-size paints, regaling the TSA officers with the name of each paint and the history behind the projects each was used for; she totally _owned_ it, too. 

A couple hours later, they were on the plane, waiting for take-off. At Dipper’s request, they’d set things up so they had their backs to a wall, with no passengers sitting behind them - something about ‘prying eyes’. Melody sat on the right aisle, with Soos - exhausted from all the last-minute arrangements he’d made back at the Shack to keep it running while they were away - fast asleep next to her, squashed up against the window. Mabel sat on the other side of her, currently reading one of the safety cards. Across the aisle sat Dipper, who was already scanning through some of those mystery letters he’d been talking about - and next to him was Wendy, staring out the opposite window; not coincidentally, as far away from Soos as she could get.

Melody _had_ been sitting up straight, all tense and excited, barely able to contain herself - finally, after all these years, she’d be going on an actual _real_ adventure! But then she had to think about Wendy, and all that dissipated. She didn’t hate Wendy, of course - heck, she didn’t even _dislike_ her - but she wished that she could be here under better circumstances . Soos was right to be hurt by what she’d said to him back at the Shack, but… was trying to cheat her out of their trip _really_ the best solution? Melody had tried to talk Soos out of it. Wendy was Dipper and Mabel’s friend, too; Mel could see that. If Wendy hadn’t shown up and they found out Soos was behind it, they’d be _miserable_ right now. And a kid being miserable is the _worst_ thing.

Thankfully, Mabel was far from miserable right now. “Ha! I have _no idea_ what any of this means!” she said, cheerfully. She read some more, pointing at a picture of some non-descript humanoid figures leaping down a safety slide with their arms in the air. “Hey look; if we crash into the sea, they’ll pull out a _super-slide!_ Look at those guys, they _totally_ crashed the plane on purpose just to use it!”

“No, they didn’t,” Dipper said from across the aisle, not even turning his head. 

Mabel gleefully ignored him. “Ya think the crew ever blow ‘em up and have plane slide fun times after landing?”

“Nope. Never. Not once.”

“-’Cause, like, can you _imagine_ working on a plane? That’s popped ears _every day!_ I’d need a super-slide just to stop me going _completely_ cray-cray!”

“I’d be more worried about the unnecessarily loud thirteen-year-old girls yelling about people crashing planes.”

 _“EDIT IT OUT!”_ Mabel belted out of nowhere, pointing at her brother and clicking her finger.

This at least got Dipper’s attention - and Wendy’s too. The redheaded teen’s brow perked up at this sight. 

“...Nnnnnot even gonna ask,” she said, returning to her window-gazing.

Mabel turned back to face Melody, and, holding up a palm as if to cover her mouth, whispered “It’s a neat little trick I invented for when Dipper’s being a grump!”

“Yeah, because video editing tricks totally work in real life”, Dipper said, sarcastically, turning back to his letters.

Mabel continued ‘whispering’ at Mel. “He always says that, but I _could_ secretly be filming this - then he’d speak a different tune!”

Melody couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Haha! Yeah… you know, when I was a kid, I once inflated my emergency life jacket so I could use it as a big, squeaky pillow. It wasn’t actually as cool as I thought it’d be; I was like ‘where’s the arrows? The diagram said there’d be arrows!’”

Mabel gasped, and once again pointed at the diagrams on her safety card. “Oh, you mean _these_ arrows? I dunno, Melody, they look _pretty_ menacing! You could take your eye out!”

“The flight crew certainly thought so, ‘cause I got ejected from the plane before takeoff! My parents were… _not_ happy…” Melody said, her high note falling a little.

 _“Science,_ my dear Melody! Now you know, there’s no danger of arrow attacks when you inflate your life jacket!”

Melody smiled again, chuckling. “Heh, yes indeedy. I think that mighta contributed to me giving up on the pilot dream.”

Mabel leaned in, apparently intrigued. “You wanted to be a pilot?”

“Yeah, but… I’ve wanted to be a lot of things. Before then I wanted to be an owl. Then I wanted to be an astronaut. Then a racecar driver. Then a warzone reporter. Then a trucker. Then a mail lady. Then… basically anything. That’s kinda where I am now. ...Little jealous of Soos that he found his life purpose when he was only twelve. I _wish_ that happened to me.”

“Tell me about it!” Mabel said, playfully waving a hand, “There’s, like, _so_ many things in life I wanna do, and people expect me to pick just _one?_ Who do I look like, Decidey the Decider? I mean, I like arts and crafts, so there’s _that,_ and I like punching and strangling people; within the queen’s rules, _obviously._ What do _you_ like?”

Melody stopped to think, scratching at her chin… she thought over the occupational obsessions she just listed. What do they all have in common? What is she used to that can always tide her over, stop her from going mad with boredom?

“...I like to travel!”

Mabel clapped, making Dipper visibly wince from the volume. “BOOM! There ya go! You could be a world explorer! Travel the world, righting wrongs, seeing the sights, whacking evil robots with folding chairs! ...Ooh, maybe you could join the Grunkles! Who knows where they’re gonna go next?”

Melody’s smile wavered a little, but not for long; she looked back at Soos next to her, still rumbling away in his sleep. “I could, but… I couldn’t leave Soos there, and he has a purpose, a real home; he has the Shack. I, uh…”

“...What?” Mabel asked, a little concern seeping in.

Melody looked back at her; it was times like this she had to remind herself how she and Soos got together. Despite what Soos sometimes thinks, it’s not just because he saved her from that evil dating sim, though that certainly helped; Soos is like what she should be. He _owns_ who he is, without a care in the world for what other people think . In a way, Mabel is like the other side of that coin - what Mel could have been as a kid, if life hadn’t been so stupid and unpredictable. ...Perhaps she deserved to know. Soos _had_ taught her to open up; she should open up to others, too.

“When I was a kid,” Mel said, “I didn’t really have a home. Well, I _kinda_ did. My family lived on the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho, but that’s as much as I can narrow it down. Dad was a small-time missionary for some church down south, and he wasn’t too great at the whole conversion business. We couldn’t afford a house, so we lived in his van, spent years just driving in circles. Mom didn’t really agree with what he was doing, got into a _buttload_ of fights. I always thought, like, I was _always_ moving, even if we never left the rez’. Heck, even when standing still. I mean, that’s not even wrong; the earth is always moving around the sun, right?”

Mabel silently nodded; she still looked a little concerned, but Mel could tell, she didn’t feel the need to butt in with any awkward questions or premature sympathy. Mel continued.

“Dad got lucky with the church when I was nine, and we moved to Gravity Falls so he could set up a more permanent base there. That’s when things _kiiiinda…_ went a little cuckoo-bananas. Mom left him and took me to live with her and her fifteen cousins in Portland. I only came back to Gravity Falls twice a year to visit dad.”

“Aw, geez…” Mabel said, her gaze falling to the floor, “for me and Dipper, Gravity Falls is the best place ever, in, like, so many ways I can’t even say. But for you, it’s that sucky suck-ville where your parents went all stupid? I can’t even _imagine…”_

“Yeah, I gotta be honest, I only took that job at the Meat Cute stand ‘cause it’d give me an excuse to avoid any more stupid family arguments while I was there. Then I saw Soos, just like, _owning_ that choo-choo train, and it was like… wow, I can actually be myself for once! What a novel feeling, huh? It’s preeeeetty corny, but, like… if y’ask me, it’s _underrated.”_

“And _now_ you’re a cute couple! An endless cycle of fun!” Mabel declared, perking up again. “Fun bounces off you two like a basketball! I know Soos used to do that by himself against a wall, he is a _buoyant_ fella!”

Melody giggled at the thought, “haha, oh wow, he never told me about that! I am _totally_ getting him to do that later!”

“Oh, I am _all over_ that scrapbookortunity, Miss...! Miss...” Mabel said, with a determined point, faltering as she struggled to recall Melody’s surname. ...Oh yeah, she never told them, did she?

“Camassia Quamash.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my name: Melody Camassia Quamash. I-It’s a kind of herb native to the Pacific Northwest. Was a staple of our tribe’s diet back in the day.”

Mabel sat up again, trying to recall something. “Your tribe? ...Oh! Right, I get it! Brain went all _-sppht-_ for a sec there,” she said, blowing a raspberry to indicate her brain’s state. "Didn't know you were Native American, though."

"Yeah, not a lot of people do. Not something that comes up often," Mel admitted.

Melody couldn’t help but look back at Soos again. She had been smiling, but she struggled to maintain it; she debated whether or not to tell Dipper and Mabel the full story behind Soos and Wendy’s falling out, partly because she feared it would only make things worse. It reminded her how even a good thing could fall apart at the slightest wrong move, just like it had been with her parents - though whether or not that was ever a ‘good thing’ was debatable.

“Oh my gosh, best idea alert!” Mabel suddenly piped up, looking back at her safety card. “Those bags stuck to the oxygen masks - great snack dispersal device! That’s the second perk of working on a plane, I’ve decided! Super-slides, and snack masks! ...And maybe gremlins on the wings!”

 _“Mabel,_ don’t talk about that...” Dipper said, overhearing, “I’m on a gremlin-free flight streak right now, and I don’t need you jinxing it!”

Mabel nonchalantly turned back to Melody, waving a hand. “Dipper stuff, y’know how it is.”

Melody nodded, smiling again. First Dipper’s speech, and now Mabel’s antics - who knew that the kids had so much happiness-inducing _zing?_...Zing is a good word. Everyone should say zing. Especially Soos; he has the same zing! Soon as he wakes up, she’s gonna tell him about zing.

* * *

Dipper yawned. Oh _no,_ he was doing _this_ again.

By now, they’d been airborne for four hours - not even half their total flight time. Dipper knew their flight took them on a roundabout land-hugging path up north and back south instead of taking them directly across the pacific, so by his reckoning they were currently somewhere above Alaska. Not that he could tell by looking; it was pitch-black outside.

He was also probably the only person on the plane besides the pilots who was still awake; Soos was still asleep, and Mabel and Melody had drifted off while watching some in-flight movie - probably _Indestructibuddies Insemble!_ or one of the other twelve-billion over-budgeted superhero reboots they were making now (Dipper likes explosions and power fantasies as much as the next hormone-addled thirteen-year-old, but he prefers it when they have an actual compelling story behind them to give them the proper weight, you know? Not just explosions for the sake of explosions! Besides, ‘insemble’ isn’t even a real word! ...Okay, his mind may have wandered a bit there). Wendy tried to keep herself awake by listening to heavy metal, but that had the opposite effect and lulled her to sleep instead. ...Maybe she should try listening to BABBA?

That just left him, with his reading light on and a tray littered with empty coffee cups - way more than a kid his age is supposed to drink - meticulously reading through Constantine Corduroy’s letters from Coiled Springs. Wendy had told him she’d read ‘something bad’, but at first they were… pretty boring, all things considered. 

The most interesting discovery he’d gleaned from the early letters was that Constantine was, unlike his lumberjack brother, physically frail but good with numbers (a pattern that seemed to keep repeating itself with siblings, Dipper thought), so the founder of Coiled Springs - a man identified only as ‘O.H.M.’, but described as ‘an eccentric industrialist from Old England’ - took him out of the turquoise mines and hired him on as an accountant instead. There was also a passing mention of the area’s Aboriginal inhabitants, who for some reason were already long gone before O.H.M. and his convicts arrived. Other than that, it was mostly dry accounts of ‘numbers of rocks worked’, and ‘gallons of absinthe consumed’. It was probably these letters that had made him drowsy in the first place.

As he continued, however, the letters steadily started reporting stranger activities, keeping Dipper awake. First Constantine ‘noticed a discrepancy in O.H.M’s finances’ - he was making a _fraction_ of the money he should have been making, based on the vast amounts of turquoise they were mining, leading him to suspect fraud. The truth was rather more Weird:

> _‘June the 18th, 1866_
> 
> _Today, my employer O.H.M. confided in me: he is, at heart, a man of God, and he serves a higher purpose. Or so he claims. If he is to be believed, one night long ago in old London town, an angel appeared to him from the heavens, and bestowed upon him all of his schematics - he owes his success to this ‘angel’. In exchange, the angel asked a favour of him - there is a ‘beast’, what God-fearing folk would call a devil, hidden beneath the sands of Terra Australis. His task is simple - remove the beast. To ensure no-one interferes, he has been misrepresenting the bounty of his claim. What exactly he meant by ‘remove’ I have no clue, let alone how he plans to accomplish such a task with this motley band of vagabonds, rascals, ne’er-do-wells and other related synonyms. If this is an attempt to delay a full-scale fraud investigation, he is either the most audacious huxter I have ever met, or the stupidest. I have yet to confirm this episode was not a side-effect of excessive absinthe consumption. Take heed, my cousins - the dry movement is your friend.’_

Despite Constantine’s skepticism, any mention of ‘angels’ bestowing inspiration upon mortal minds in exchange for ‘favours’ was an immediate red flag. But that was just the beginning.

> _‘I keep seeing a bird in my dreams. One of the local specimens - an emu, I believe. It speaks to me in an inhuman tongue. Whenever it talks, I bleed from the ears. This is most galling.’_
> 
> _‘The miners have become increasingly agitated; they claim to have encountered what the Aboriginals that formerly resided here refer to as the Quinkan - spirits that have shown them their darkest fears. Several miners have been reduced to a vegetative state. O.H.M. cares not for them, dismissing them as ‘blind imbeciles’.’_
> 
> _‘O.H.M. claims to have pioneered a new technology that may eliminate the human element from his mining operation altogether. For the purposes of secrecy, I have been sworn to silence as to the exact nature of this technology. In fact, merely mentioning it in this letter may be hazardous to my health.’_
> 
> _‘The animals have been acting strangely as of late. Whenever I pass, they merely stop and gaze at me, as though they are analyzing my every movement. I shot a kangaroo for dinner, the rest of its group were not even aware I had done so. Or so it appeared. More and more of them appear haggard and deformed… the kangaroo I had shot had barely enough meat for a single Irish roast, and had eyes in places where eyes are not supposed to be found.’_

As Dipper rifled through every detail, he had his journal on his lap, meticulously taking notes on everything he saw. He’d dubbed Constantine’s dream-emu the ‘Dreamu’, because not even he could resist such an obvious pun. Despite this burst of energy these discoveries had provided, he still couldn’t stop himself yawning - perhaps because he hadn’t received any updates on the ‘devil’ and the ‘angel’. ...Wow, this must be that feeling Great-Uncle Ford was talking about when they visited the alien crash site - once, any talk of Weird phenomena had held a ‘punch!’ but now some of it was starting to feel kinda ‘meh’. The Quinkan seemed like they could be dangerous to the unwary, but they needed something beyond ‘showing you your worst fears’ - the _Gremloblin_ could do that, and he defeated it with a mirror!

But then he looked at the next letter, one of the last in the pile; if he needed a burst, he got it.

> _For every action there is an eq **u** al_ **** _and opposite reactio **n**._ ****
> 
> _Pressure builds upon the coil th_ ** _a_** _t we_ **_s_** _tand on. If it ever rises, it shall pierce the_ **_b_** _arrier, bringing about the end of all things._
> 
> _O.H.M. has shown me the_ **_a_** _ngel. I was a fool to have eve_ ** _r_ ** _mis_ ** _j_** _udged him._
> 
> _Beware the_ **_ALTERGATOR_ **
> 
> **_SBU SSE SNCAG VFCVRPRD_ **

And below that, was a drawing of two figures - one was that all-too-familiar symbol of a pyramid with a single eye - the mere sight of it sent a deathly chill up Dipper’s spine, and the feeling of his hairs standing on end against his clothes was enough to keep him alert. The other figure, however, was unknown. It appeared to be… a simplistic doodle of an alligator?

This was all too much - there were so many questions racing around his head, he needed someone to bounce ideas off of… but he was on a plane with strangers, if he got too into it, it could be a disaster. Hell, he was taking a _huge_ risk bringing out these letters here in the first place. Imagine who or what could be watching… what gremlins on the wings!

He looked at Mabel across the aisle. Leaned up against Melody, who in turn was leaned up against Soos, like a set of human dominos. His sister was drooling in her sleep and covered in Chipacker crumbs, mumbling under her breath.

“Mmeh… onward, Aoshima…”

Dipper sighed with relief; he was afraid she was having another nightmare. She needed all the good night’s sleep she could get. Besides, she was unlikely to keep her cool if he had any ‘really bad’ theories, as Wendy put it.

That thought prompted him to look at Wendy next to him, her headphones having long since slid off her face, which was partly covered by her pine tree hat. She could keep her cool; she was the ice bag on the Zodiac for a reason. Dipper debated whether or not it was a good idea to wake her, but given the choice between this and spending the entire rest of the flight nervously chewing on a pen and probably getting ink poisoning, he knew he had to try.

“Wendy!” he whispered, trying to shake her awake. “Wendy, wake up!”

“Ughhh…” she groaned, still half asleep, “not now, Dipper… tell the hijackers to wait ‘til morning…”

“Wendy, it _is_ morning,” Dipper said, not really helping his case, “and it’s worse than that - it’s Bill.”

In an instant, Wendy shot up, wide awake. _“WHAT?!”_ she yelled, making Dipper wince, and instinctively reaching for the spot on her pants where she normally kept her axe (which she couldn’t bring in her carry-on luggage, for obvious reasons).

 _“Shhhhhhh!”_ Dipper went, motioning for her to sit back down. He glanced back at the others - they stirred, but thankfully they weren’t awoken. “I didn’t mean, like, he’s _back…_ though, I guess the way I said that kinda… _yeah…”_ he admitted, flush from embarrassment.

Wendy pushed her hat off her eyes and gave Dipper a shove, almost knocking him off the seat. “Don’t _ever_ do that again, man! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dipper said, flustered, as he sat back up. “But it’s those letters - remember when you said you read something _really_ bad?”

Wendy sat back down - her annoyance disappearing, she nodded in understanding. “Ohhh, yeah… you got to _that_ one, huh? The one with the… Altergator, right?” she said, now whispering to minimize the chances of any passengers asking inconvenient questions.

“Yeah… I have _so_ many questions about this. Like, what is the Altergator? What’s the deal with the Dreamu? What’s Bill got to do with it? I mean, I guess it might not be Bill, but… who else could it be? Triangles with eyes, making deals, talk of ‘piercing barriers’ - dimensional barriers? Does the Altergator even exist? I mean, Bill would say _anything_ to trick people into doing his dirty work. O-or maybe it’s another demon, a friend of Bill’s! He didn’t come through the rift alone, after all… but then why would he need to be ‘removed’... and if this all happened back in 1866, how did they stop him? Maybe they didn’t, maybe _that’s_ why the town disappeared! _Gah,_ so many things to consider!”

Dipper stopped to catch his breath, feeling them get shorter and shorter. He wasn’t sure if he was excited or terrified. Mysteries, by their very nature, create conflicting responses.

Wendy seemed… a bit less frantic. She just shrugged and said, “I dunno, man, you’re the mystery cracker; I looked at the same thing you’re lookin’ at. If I had any idea, I woulda told ya.”

“Of course, of course…” Dipper said, lost in his own thoughts. “Aw man, Ford’s gonna be stoked to see these… ‘stoked’, that’s the right word, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, ‘stoked’ works. ‘Fired up’ is also cool.”

“Oh yeah, that’s even better! I can’t believe my luck; not only am I gonna help the Author with a new discovery, these letters could represent a major break in the case! ...It almost feels a little _too_ convenient…” Dipper said, his excitement gradually turning to concern once more.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Wendy admitted. “I guess my family’s kinda like yours, we’re just attracted to Weird stuff. We _have_ stuck around in Gravity Falls basically since it existed. Wouldn’t be surprised if, like, it leaves a mark on ya.”

“Hmm, maybe…” Dipper opined, taking a closer look at the letter. “Actually, how come you never told us about these letters back when we were dealing with Bill?”

“Honestly, guess I _forgot._ I musta been, like, _five_ when I last read these; an’ obviously at the time I didn’t get why spooky triangles were a _thing,_ beyond being triangles that were spooky. I hadn’t heard about Coiled Springs in _years_ until you mentioned it on the phone the other day.”

“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense…” Dipper acknowledged, nodding. It was only about ten seconds later, in the corner of his eye, he could make out Wendy frowning, apparently considering something. “...Wendy, are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine… it’s just, I know that you probably think I’m hiding something from you, I mean, this is all _way_ too lucky…”

Oh no, he’d done it again, hadn’t he? Stupid Dipper, always getting stuck in your own brain…

He lowered the letter and immediately looked back at her. “What? Wendy, no, of course I don’t think you’re hiding anything from me! Honestly, that hadn’t even occurred to me! I mean, why _would_ you?”

A few droplets of sweat began to run down the older teen’s face; her eyes briefly darted over to where the others were sitting, and she fidgeted about with her hat. “W-well, I mean… I kinda _have_ been keeping something from you… it’s got nothing to do with this mystery of ours, it’s just me being stupid…”

Dipper blinked, his stance and expression unchanged. “Well, what is it?”

Wendy sighed, slumping to her seat - and kicking the one in front in the process. Thank goodness they were asleep. “It’s Soos. You probably saw me and him yelling at each other when you got to the airport. I kinda said some jerky things to him and Melody a couple days ago, and so he… I lost my job. And then he lied to you about me having Spanish Flu; I guess as revenge. ...Sometimes, I kinda feel like I deserve it - like, I can tell Soos was _really_ hurt, but at the same time… I dunno, I-I just didn’t wanna ruin your awesome mystery hunt-slash-vacation by bringing you all down with my personal biz."

Dipper’s mouth hung open, like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. He honestly had no idea what to say; two of his best friends now hated each other? ...No, that can’t be right; it must be a misunderstanding. They’d have to patch it up eventually. Right? If they wanted to tolerate each other on this trip, they’d have to, surely.

He glanced back at the letter - and seeing that stupid triangle demon staring back at him almost made him damage it with clenched fists. It’s like the image of Bill was taunting him. Dipper could tell that the demon’s specter looming over their mission probably wouldn’t do it any favours, either. But it wasn’t himself he was worried about.

He turned to look back at his sister, still asleep, blissfully unaware of the revelations he and Wendy had just shared. Dipper knew that she didn’t want anyone to make sacrifices for her sake, but… he’s her brother, and he’d always looked out for her. He could hardly just disregard her happiness entirely; then he’d be a cold-hearted jerk. But… where do they draw the line? What’s the acceptable degree of sacrifice? If she felt they were still cleaning up after Weirdmageddon, after that poor decision she made in a moment of emotional weakness…

Dipper grunted in frustration, punching the tray in front of him, knocking one of his empty coffee cups off. Why does this _always_ happen to his family? And at this point, Soos and Wendy were basically family, so they count. It’s all going well, but then someone makes _one_ poor decision in the heat of the moment, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

“Dipper?” Wendy spoke up.

He sat back up straight, reasserting confidence. He didn’t like it, but he knew what he had to do. At least for now. After they’d enjoyed themselves for a few days.

“I think… it’s probably best we don’t tell the others about any of this. I don’t want my sister getting hung up on the W-word. Or whatever your deal with Soos is. That’s none of our business. We don’t have to keep it from them forever; just… wait for the right moment. Sound good?”

Wendy’s expression turned to one of firm understanding, and to punctuate it, she mimed zipping her mouth shut and throwing away the zipper; their little sign. Dipper did it right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZLL FH SHALY, HSALYNHAVY!


	5. This Is Snow Joke!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note; I know this story's been kinda slow to start, and it's taking forever for Dipper, Mabel and co. to actually get to Australia; I promise, in the next chapter, they'll arrive. I'm not so sure about this chapter, myself, I felt it got a bit meandering and unfocused towards the end. Incidentally, since Stan makes reference to Dipper and Mabel arriving 'in a few days', this chapter takes place sometime between Chapter 3 and Chapter 4.

Ford leaned against his desk, staring at the diagram he’d pinned to the wall of his cabin. There was something missing here…

The diagram, labelled ‘The Multiverse Tower’, displayed a tall trapezoid-like structure with multiple layers - one layer in particular, towards the top, was labelled ‘Dimension 46’/ AKA Prime Earth AKA Home - YOU ARE HERE’. Other layers bore the names of other dimensions Ford had visited in his 30-year sojourn through the multiverse. The layers were all connected by arrows - a small few went up, but the vast majority went down; and right at the very bottom of the diagram was the legend ‘NIGHTMARE REALM EVENT HORIZON’, and a drawing of Bill Cipher.

Ford took a bite of his nearby Yeastemite sandwich as he racked his mind over a problem; not only is it delicious, but it also calms the nerves, as he’d discovered. But the secret behind its superior taste was a mystery that eluded him, just like this problem. How _did_ Bill ascend the tower so easily? It was obvious why he needed help ascending to their dimension, but what about every other dimension below it?

Suddenly, Ford was startled out of his thoughts as he heard a cacophonous banging sound, reverberating throughout the ship. It was muffled, to be sure, but Ford could tell it was coming from the helm. It was evening outside, and Stanley was out looking for ground transport (again). He wasn’t supposed to be back for hours.

Ford grumbled to himself; this was annoying, but he needed to be prepared for anything; this was the second time lately that someone had been disturbing them on their boat. Opening his cabinet nearby, he took out one of his stun gloves and pulled it on, holding it behind his back as he ascended to the helm. If some common criminal thought they could ransack the _Stan O’ War_ , they were in for a shock. Pun very much intended.

Ford opened the door to the top deck - and to his surprise, he found a rather confused courier holding a large cardboard box.

“Evenin’... got a package here for a Mr. Stanferd Pines?”

Ford’s own expression now mirrored the courier’s; he looked down at the box - it was indeed marked ‘STANFORD PINES, STAN O WAR, TOWNSVILLE, AUSTRALIA’ in… very messy handwriting, almost like it’d been scrawled by a three-year-old neanderthal. Ford was surprised it was even legible, and they’d done an equally sloppy job with the stamps. The box itself was pretty frayed, too, like something had been scratching it.

He looked back up to see the courier putting the box down on the deck and holding out a… device? A screen with a little plastic cigarette attached to it?

“I’m sorry, what is this?”

“It’s a stylus pen. You sign the screen with it.”

Ford could only roll his eyes as he did as he was instructed. “Electronic pens, electronic forms, why must literally everything be electronic now…” he grumbled under his breath as he did so.

“Well… thanks, mate,” the courier said, taking back the superfluous e-signing device. Then, out of the blue, he leaned in to whisper to him, pointing down at the box. “Fair warnin’, though… I think there’s somethin’ alive in there. Could hear it rustlin’ like mad. I’da checked, but that could cost me my job, so yeah.”

“Hmm… strange…” Ford mused as the courier went on his way.

He took the box downstairs and rested it atop the kitchen table; despite what the courier had said, the box was as still as a stone. Still, couldn’t hurt to be careful… in fact, it might have moved a _little_ bit? Or that could have been a mere paranoid twitch on his part. Standing by the counter, he rubbed some of the rheum out of the corner of his eye. Not only had he been neglecting to eat since he learned about Coiled Springs, he’d been neglecting to sleep, too. More so than usual. He’d been dozing off at his desk while working, but that could hardly qualify as sleep. At this rate, he’d have to get _another_ new shirt - he’d thrown away his old red one, it was unsalvageable at this stage. Too much terror sweat, sleep drool, coffee, his blood, Stanley’s blood, kraken’s blood, and who knows what else…

He heard a rustling behind him.

 _“What was that?!”_ he shot out, turning around in a heartbeat.

His eyes narrowed at the mysterious box. He tweaked his glasses.

Nothing.

Oh, boy. _This_ brought back memories. Not getting any sleep, hearing voices… it was 1982 all over again. He needed to be rational about this. Before he’d even _touch_ that box, he’d need some energy. In case it was some sort of… extradimensional bio-assassin. ...He had just the thing.

Turning back to the counter, he had an experiment he’d been wanting to run - he already knew he liked coffee. He liked Yeastemite. Coffee gave him energy. Yeastemite made him relax - if only there was some kind of… _relaxing energy._ It was perfectly logical!

Thus, he spent the next three minutes making himself a ‘Coffeemite’. Boiling water, dash of bitter instant powder - tastes awful, but that’s the entire point - and instead of diluting it with milk or sugar, just a pinch of Yeastemite. Or a blob. Okay, maybe two blobs. Three. Three will do. ...Four.

Finally, in his hands, he had the experimental brew; mental recording initiate, Coffemite Test #1 out of… however many. Commence gulp… _now._

He sloshed the slightly sticky liquid around his mouth. Hmm… both very bitter, to be sure, but different kinds of bitter that cancelled each other out - there was the bitter that reminded you that sleep is a waste of life, and the bitter that reminded you that life is good. Life is fine, life is not plagued by constant danger, and most importantly, life cannot take you off-guard anymore. Not when you’ve seen all the surprises you could possibly see, especially not turning around and seeing that box open-

_Wait._

Ford slammed the mug down on the counter, turning around and seeing the box open. 

...And for some reason it was filled with cash and credit cards; he could see a trail of banknotes leading to his cabin.

 **_“# <&>%^!”_ ** he exclaimed, communicating in the ancestral tongue of the Symbol Dimension, as he made a beeline straight for his cabin. In the split second before he arrived, he could hear a chittering sound against the deck, almost like little claws.

By the time he got back, all he caught was a small, reptilian tail clambering into his cabinet, and the remains of his Yeastemite sandwich having vanished; based on the ravenous gobbling sounds coming from inside the cabinet, it was obvious what happened to it. 

Despite the urgency of this situation, Ford found time to repeatedly slap himself on the forehead. Idiot, idiot, _idiot!_ Of course, the _one_ time he lets his guard down, _this_ has to happen, and so soon after the supermarket incident! Should’ve just refused that accursed box the second he had to sign his name with a plastic cigarette tapping against a screen!

Well, he’s not going to find what’s going on here dwelling on his rusty brain - maybe the Oracle’s metal plate was having some unforeseen side-effects… well, before he considered that, he needed to catch whatever this creature was that used money as a bedding. Some kind of miniature dragon, perhaps? A dragon that _somehow_ knew his name and where he was, at that… well, whatever it knew, not even a dragon can take a high-voltage handshake.

Getting into a ready stance, he slowly, carefully approached the cabinet, tiptoeing as if walking on glass. Flexing the fingers in his stun glove, he grasped the handle, ready to fling it open and lunge at a second’s notice.

But then, as he was in mid-lid-fling, he felt an excruciating pain in the front of his skull, as though a headache was trying to pull him forward. He had no choice but to stop and grit his teeth, bearing through the agony. It almost came as a relief when whatever creature hiding in his cabinet suddenly flung itself towards his head with the aid of some heavy object, smacking him in the cranium, knocking his glasses onto the floor and sending him falling flat on his backside.

 _“OOF!”_ Ford cried, as he stopped to regain his senses - and managed to catch sight of the assailant for a split second before it ran off back into the kitchen area, trampling all over Ford’s glasses along the way. It seemed to be some kind of small dinosaur or dinosauroid creature. A theropod, possibly a _Compsognathus._ And apparently a very intelligent specimen, as it knew how to use his Magnet Gun, having used it to grapple onto Ford’s skull and which it now dragged behind it with its tail. It wouldn’t surprise him at this point if the dinosaur had known about the Oracle’s metal plate, too - okay, _second_ unforeseen side-effect.

Ford clambered to his feet, dusting himself off, and began to breathe sharply - no more stupid stuff, _now_ he was going to get serious. Against a… thieving, chicken-sized prehistoric theropod that had somehow mailed itself to him. ...Sounds a lot harder to take seriously when he thinks of it like that.

While he’d lost his glasses, that had happened enough times in his life not to deter him - he grabbed his Imperative Cryostasis Inducer Mark II (or his ‘Freeze Gun’, in layman’s terms) from the cabinet and stepped out into the hall leading to the kitchen. Through blurry vision, he could make out the theropod standing on the kitchen table, gathering together all the banknotes and credit cards it’d brought with it in the box. Maybe it _is_ a kind of dragon, after all. No matter; if the I.C.I. can handle a face-stealing demon, it can handle a dinosaur-dragon.

 _“FREEZE!”_ Ford called out, pointing the Freeze Gun at the creature. “Drop the Magnet Gun _right this instant!_ This is _snow joke!”_

It was difficult to make out, but it almost looked like the raptor rolled its eyes. A raptor that doesn’t like puns? What heartless, soulless person trained _this_ thing?

Then he could hear his stolen Magnet Gun powering up as the miniature dinosaur pointed it at one of his kitchen cabinets and began to rip its metallic door off its hinges, each of the rivets holding it in place popping out and scattering across the floor.

Briefly wondering why he’d even attempted diplomacy with such an objectively bad-humoured creature, Ford wasted no time firing a beam of supercooled water vapour at it, but in the split second before it could hit and freeze the creature solid, it finally tore off the cupboard door and used the force of its Magnet Gun to draw it straight to its body, using it as a shield. Chilled vapour struck the metallic sheet and quickly solidified into a layer of ice, blasting around the sides and top, but insufficient to freeze the target behind it.

Between his blurry vision and the cloud of fog that quickly formed, Ford could barely make out what happened next - a loud pulse reverberated through the boat as the ice-covered door was suddenly launched in his direction at the speed of ‘fast enough to seriously injure’. Ford quickly ducked under the approaching object, hearing it crash against the wall behind him, scattering shards of ice beneath it. Well, at least now he knows the Magnet Gun’s repulsion feature works.

He rose to his feet again, but in the fog he could see the dinosaur using the Magnet Gun to grab cans of Brown Meat™ from the now-doorless cupboard and fling them at him. One such can came flying right at his head, but he dodged to the left, letting the can hit the wall with a ‘CLONG’. He wasn’t going to solve this issue just standing here, the dinosaur is no doubt planning an escape, using the cans to buy time. Ford took a step forward, dodging right to avoid a second can. Two more cans came his way in short order, and he sidestepped them easily, slowly advancing - this creature was too fast, he couldn’t get an opportunity to aim… he needed to use _momentum._

When the next can sailed headward, Ford rolled under it, and in a swift motion, ended in a crouching position with his Freeze Gun pointed at the creature once more. Before he could at last pull the trigger, however, yet another can flew at him - must have gotten disoriented from the roll to miss _that_ one - and slapped the Freeze Gun out of his hands, sending it clattering against the floor next to him. It was a small effort to pick it back up, but this distraction was all the dinosaur needed to hop down off the kitchen table - sending banknotes and credit cards scattering all over the place - kick it over on its side to use as cover, and then launch the entire thing at him.

Ford immediately fired another burst of ice-cold water vapour at the rapidly-approaching table, the weight of rapidly-forming ice building and building until it was enough to slow and eventually stop the table before reaching him. Permitting himself a smirk at a job well done, Ford hopped over the icy table - careful to avoid slipping - and aimed at the creature beyond.

 _“A-HA!”_ He exclaimed, before his smirk fell - the creature wasn’t there. Of course, it used the table as a distraction; this creature was good. _Damn_ good. Not only was it smart enough to use all of his technology with zero training, it could also misdirect and deceive… he’d definitely be studying this specimen as soon as he got his hands on it. Though that was a rather premature thought at this stage…

He examined the kitchen, trying his best to see through the fog, and began to shiver from the drop in temperature. It was _not_ in a fantastic state, all things considered; Stanley would probably appreciate all of this money lying around, but he doubted it was Australian Dollars. How had he let this happen, anyway? Yeastemite after-effects, perhaps?

As he thought of this, he could feel his Freeze Gun shake in his hands, as if an invisible force was pulling it away from him… oh _no._

He immediately turned around and tried to retain his grip, but his cold-induced trembles had loosened his fingers enough for it to begin to come loose; his attempts to keep hold only worsened the situation, as he slipped up on the icy floor he himself had created and fell to his knees, the Freeze Gun flying from his hands.

And into the claws of the dinosaur, now hanging upside down from the ceiling. It didn’t take twelve Ph.Ds to know what it was going to do next.

 _“NO NO NO W-”_ Ford tried to say as the ice-cold vapours came his way.

* * *

_“Plottin’ a carjackin’, doodley-doo, grand theft auto’s the way to go…!”_

Stan Pines sang to himself as he strutted back to the Townsville Marina, looking at the handful of polaroid photos he’d taken. Perhaps it wasn’t the most discreet thing in the world, but hey, he’d arrived recently enough for ‘but officer, I’m just a senile American tourist!’ to still be a plausible cover.

He was on his way back from a local RV dealership; since this was shaping up to be a full-on Mystery Crew reunion - and they even had a newcomer, to boot! - he’d decided he wasn’t gonna mess around, he was gonna pull out all the stops to make this a _luxury_ vacation-slash-Weirdness hunt! He’d seen one RV in particular that was perfect for their purposes - nothing too fancy, but a major step up from that decaying hunk o’ junk he had back in Oregon. Only issue was that it was way outside their price bracket - but this was nothing he couldn’t work around; Stan had a plan. He just needed to pick up some stuff from the boat, maybe borrow one or two of Ford’s gizmos.

“Ugh!” he grunted as he suddenly bumped into someone. “‘Ey, you mind? I’m walkin’ here!” he said, adjusting his askew glasses to get a better sight of the very tall figure he just walked into. Surely they could see he was examining photos; a very valid reason to not be looking where you’re going!

“An’ I’m standin’, what’s yer point?”

Hmm, that voice seemed familiar somehow… coarse, yet feminine. Coming from a six-foot-something, muscular, middle-aged punk… oh, _that’s_ who she is!”

“...’Ey, haha! It’s… Jo Zhou, my favourite barber-slash-hairdresser from this particular towns...ville!” he said, stuffing his photos into his pocket, trying to be cheerful. “Er, what are you doin’ out here?”

“Stanley Pines! I was lookin’ fer you, actually,” Jo replied, folding her tattooed arms. “I remembered you said you were out ‘ere on the Marina, so yeah.”

Stan scratched the newly-shaved back of his head - courtesy of Jo herself - his brow furrowing in confusion. “Huh, yeah. Yeah. So, ah, what’s goin’ on? Thought someone as… interestin’ as you would have a partner to go home to, maybe a couple kids… uh, not that I’m suggestin’ yer old or nothin’! O-or that you’re not that interestin’ enough to-... yanno what I mean!”

Stan felt sweat run down the back of his head, and he tried chuckling to cover up that slip-up. He _really_ didn’t want to annoy this lady, she looked like she could snap him in half. Mercifully, it seemed she wasn’t offended.

“Mate. Look at you. Yer in no position to be callin’ _anyone_ old, unless they’re Tutankhamun’s bloody roommate.”

Stan sighed, partly in relief, partly in resignation, and he tried to slump, looking more relaxed. “Yeah, can’t argue with that… everythin’ except the… whatever it was about Tootin’-what’s-his-name.”

“Ya never heard of Tutankhamun? A.K.A. King Tut? Li’l brat, he was… ahem, anyways,” she quickly moved on from that subject, waving a hand. “Big shocker, turns out you were givin’ me too much credit. I don’t have many friends! I spend me nights in me apartment, rockin’ in the fetal position, suckin’ me thumb, wonderin’ where it all went wrong,” she explained with the same casual tone one would use when talking about the weather.

This did not make Stan any less confused, needless to say. “Uh... _huh._ I’m… sorry to hear that?” He paused for a moment. “Are you being sarcastic right now? I honestly can’t tell. In my day, sarcasm was a forbidden art, easy to pick out; now every man and his kitten speaks sarcasm as a second language. Lots o’ that linguistic drift, yanno?”

“Yyyyyyep… _sarcasm…”_ she drawled out slowly, trying to smile - key word being _‘try’_ . This response was _not_ encouraging. Before Stan could further puzzle this out, she continued, dropping that… _attempt_ at a smile, “Anyway, me point is, I have a _great_ deal o’ free time, an’ you’re a pretty good listener, an’ we share some common outlooks on many things…”

Stan’s eyebrow shot up in an instant. Was this going where he thought it was going? ...Not what he was expecting when he’d first met Jo, but…

“Jo, are you askin’ me on a date?” he asked, bluntly.

Just like that, Jo’s stance when straight as a pillar, and some… red stuff appeared all over her face. “...Don’t flatter yerself, old man. I’m askin’ fer a _platonic outing.”_

“A what now?”

“Ya mean ya never heard of- bloody ‘ell, what did they teach you in history class in the U.S. of A.?”

Stan shrugged. “I dunno, never really paid attention. I learned most o’ my history from readin’ _Captain Nazi-Puncher._ That oughta be part of the curriculum.”

“Well, ‘least you learned somethin’,” Jo said, nodding in approval. “Can’t go wrong with punchin’ Nazis fer a livin’. Believe me, I know.”

“You’ve done that?”

“A-a couple times, but not fer a _livin’,_ nah. Dad was a soldier in ‘Nam, an’ _his_ dad punched Nazis fer a livin’. Well, shot mostly, but also punched. An’ me mum did radio for the Viet Cong, so that also helped. That’s how dad fell in love with ‘er, actually. Naturally soothin’ voice. Unlike mine. I destroyed my voice from smokin’ too many medicinal plants.”

“Huh… I _wish_ my pa punched Nazis for a livin’. He was a draft-dodger back in the ‘40s,” Stan admitted. “Actually wait, I thought you were Australian. You guys fought in ‘Nam?”

“We did, yeah. Not surprised you weren’t aware, but yeah. An’ nah, before y’ask, it didn’t end so great for us, either.”

“Heh, some things never change…” Stan remarked. An uncomfortable silence followed. He tried to avert his gaze, but he couldn’t help but notice Jo doing the exact same thing. 

So she was acting a little weird, but probably not much weirder than anyone from Gravity Falls. She knew stuff, which is a plus. ...He still wasn’t sure if she was hitting on him; it sure didn’t sound like it. Most girls he ever met who hit on him would usually compliment him on his jokes, or his ‘smooth manners’. In stark contrast, he hasn’t heard Jo laugh a single time, and her attempts at _smiling_ at him could probably haunt someone’s nightmares. ...Then again, people _have_ said the same thing about him whenever he tried to be nice. As in, genuinely nice, not fake smarmy nice to lure saps away from their wallets.

“So, uh…” he finally continued, “what sorta… ‘platonic outing’ are ya thinkin’ about? I, uh… hope it’s not gonna involve me an’ you goin’ on a walk in the mountains. Let’s just say I got some bad experiences with mountain walks,” he said, remembering what happened with Darlene. That whole incident had been floating in the back of his mind every time he’d exchanged flirts with a girl since then. If nothing else, at least Jo was, appearance-wise, the exact opposite of her; and not just because she wasn’t a giant spider from the waist down.

That red stuff on Jo’s face came back. “Well. Matter o’ fact, it does _not_ involve any mountain walks, I merely wanted to, uh…”

Before she could answer, Stan heard a loud ‘bleep’ coming from his belt. It was his walkie-talkie, the ones that he and Ford had agreed they’d use in case of emergencies, because they had neither the money nor the patience for what the kids call ‘phones’ these days.

Stan sighed, picking up the walkie-talkie. “Hold on a sec, Jo, I gotta talk to my brother.”

Answering the call, he held up to his ear. “Come in, Sixer, what’s up? This is Holy Mackerel!”

The only response he received was indistinct static, along with the distant sounds of… metal clattering against a floor.

“Sixer? Come in!” he repeated, alarm seeping into his voice.

More clattering, the sound of… an explosion? A blast? Yet more clattering…

 _“N… NO W…”_ he could barely make out Ford’s voice on the other end, followed by another blast.

“SIXER, WHAT’S GOIN’ ON?! STANFORD, COME IN!”

The reception went dead.

Stan immediately put the walkie-talkie back. “Jo, somethin’s not right! Look, I gotta go for a minute! O-or an hour! Maybe two hours! Just don’t go _anywhere!”_ he babbled, unthinking, as he ran straight back to the _Stan O’ War._ He was lucky he happened to be at the Marina at the right time. He didn’t have time to think about what was going on, he just needed to get back _right now._

Not five minutes later, he’d made it back; he swung open the door to the helm, not even closing it behind him, and thundered down the stairs to the lower decks. Stopping to catch his breath, it just occurred to him how cold it was down here. His short breaths had become visible, and there was even a bit of fog in the air; as he shivered, he began rubbing against his arms to remove his now slowly-solidifying sweat drops.

“Brrr… even in Australia, I can’t get away with wearin’ shorts…” he said to himself.

Looking down the hall to the kitchen, the place looked like the abominable snowman’s walk-in freezer. Cupboards had been swung open, icicles were forming everywhere, the floor was slick with ice. By his feet, he could see a half-dozen bent cans of Brown Meat™ lying on the floor, along with a dented cupboard door that had apparently been ripped off its hinges; and off down the hall, the kitchen table had been turned over. His brother was nowhere to be seen.

“Oy…” Stan sighed, creating another cloud of cool air. “What ‘ave you gotten yerself into _this_ time, Poindexter?”

Slowly, he trudged down the hall, hearing him crush tiny frost particles as he went, calling out into the cabins. He looked in Ford’s cabin first - “Stanford, ya in there?” - but found no-one. Only a pair of broken glasses on the floor. The sight of that made his heart sink. He continued down the hall.

“Stanford? C’mon, brother, where are ya?! This ain’t funny anymore!”

As if on cue, as he walked past the overturned table, he turned his head to be greeted by Stanford - collapsed onto the floor, his face looking up, locked into a yelp of sudden panic. He was completely frozen inside a huge block of ice.

“GAH!” Stan couldn’t help but yelp himself, startled. “This… this is _not good…_ ”

“Ya don’t say?”

“AAAGH!” he yelped, again, even _more_ startled; this time, as he turned around to hear the voice behind him, his foot got caught on the layer of ice on the kitchen floor and he slipped up, landing on his backside.

Standing behind him was… Jo?

 _“Jo?!_ Whaddya doin’ here, I told ya to stay put!”

“Ya looked like you could use some help,” she said, as though it was obvious why she was there. She held out a strong hand and helped Stanley back to his feet.

As Stan stretched and heard another ‘pop’ sound as his bones were set back in place, Jo looked to her side, seeing Ford’s frozen form.

 _“Holy dooley…_ did you say his name was Stanford?”

Stan finally dusted some frost particles off his shirt. “Ugh… yep, that’s my brother, Stanford. Yanno, the egghead I was tellin’ ya about. This is always happenin’ to him.”

Jo didn’t respond. She just… stared at Ford, her mouth hanging open. Oh wait, of course - Stan sighed again, pinching his nose. He never told Jo about all the Weird stuff they were up to; this was probably the first time she’d ever seen a man frozen in a block of ice. Hell, given the temperatures down under, this might be the first time she’s ever seen ice _in general._

“Look, Jo… I know this is all _really_ crazy, but I assure ya, there’s a very good explanation for-”

Before he could finish his sentence, he could hear a chittering sound behind him. His ears perking up, he looked behind him, noticing something new - there was an overturned cardboard box nestled in the corner of the kitchen, and it was rustling with movement. Listening closer, he could also hear a distinct gobbling sound… there was _something_ under there, stuffing its face. With some of Ford’s Yeastemite, judging from the empty koala-shaped bottle next to the box.

Then Stan’s eyes widened. Beneath the ice on the floor, there were also… _banknotes?_ And credit cards? American tender, too.

 _“Money!”_ he reflexively blurted out; he almost acted on pure instinct and walked right over to it, but he was able to stop and think. This could be some kind of trap. ...Devious little critter somehow knows what makes him tick…

As he was thinking, the gobbling under the box suddenly stopped. A little claw reached out from underneath, lifting up the box; whatever creature was underneath it was still hidden by shadow, but Stan could make out the glint of a reptilian eye. It then made a distinct squawk noise… a very familiar squawk, at that. It almost sounded like the creature was saying ‘no refunds’...

Stan tried to kneel down, getting on the creature’s level.

“C… _Compy?_ Is that you?”

The creature apparently caught sight of something else - squawking again in panic, it retreated back into its safe box.

“Compy? I-it’s me, your Mama Stan! H-how did you get here…?”

Just then, he could feel Jo tapping on his shoulder. “The bloody ‘ell’s a Compy?”

Stan didn’t take his eyes off the box for a second. “He’s… he’s a…” he sighed, unable to think of a convincing lie for once. “He’s a dinosaur I kept as a… ‘pet’ would be stretchin’ it, more like a free-range zoo exhibit. Yeah, an actual real, livin’ dinosaur.”

“Huh…” Jo went, sounding… oddly unfazed at this discovery. “...Don’t look like any dinosaur I’ve ever seen. Thought they were s’posed to have feathers.”

“Yeah, that’s what Stanford said when I told ‘im about Compy. He said they were Weird, possibly… genetically engineered by aliens or somethin’? I don’t remember,” Stan said, throwing caution to the wind. Jo seemed to be taking this remarkably well, minus that brief moment with seeing Ford frozen, so maybe she could be trusted. He'd rather Ford didn't resort to using McGucket's memory eraser, and he had a feeling Ford was equally unenthusiastic about such a prospect.

“Might be… oh, found this on the floor,” Jo said, holding up… one of Ford’s gizmos. What was it, the Cryo… whatsit? The Freeze Gun!

Stan snatched it away from her. “You _probably_ shouldn’t touch that! I think that’s what caused this mess…” he turned back to the box that Compy was hidden under. A stern expression forming on his face, he spoke to the little _Compsognathus_ like he was lecturing a child. _“Compy,_ did _you_ do this?! Couldn’t ya tell he’s my brother? Don’t we give off… the same old man musk, or whatever?”

Compy went silent.

“Compy, yanno I’m not mad at you, I’m just _very disappointed._ I thought I taught you better than this! ...Wait, no, I _didn’t_ teach you, that’s why I had to give you away to Farmer Sprott. ...This isn’t about _that,_ is it?”

Compy’s beak emerged ever-so-slightly from under the box, exposing a slightly irate look on his face.

Stan’s own expression softened. “Aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that! I did what I had to, you were scarin’ away all my customers! Besides, you never had any use for all that money, you’re a freakin’ dinosaur! You could’ve at least given it to someone who’d actually _use_ it!”

Compy only turned his nose up at him and retreated back into the box again.

He could hear Jo shuffling impatiently behind him. “Uh… should I step outside while you have yer little… family reunion?”

“Wait!” Stan said, holding up a hand. He stood back up, turning to face her. “I need to get Compy outta here, an’ I could do with yer help.”

“Ah, I see, I see. So ya want me to kill it? Can do!” Jo said, bending down, apparently reaching for something hidden in one of her boots.

Stan stopped her, frantically waved his hands from side to side. _“NO!_ No, no, no, don’t kill ‘im! Just help me catch ‘im!”

Jo stood back up, grumbling under her breath. “Oh, _fine._ So do you ‘ave a plan?”

Stan glanced at the Freeze Gun he was still holding. “Yeah. If I know Compy, I know how to get ‘im outta his hidey-hole. When that happens, you spring in there and grab ‘im - if he’s as feisty as I remember, ya won’t be able to hold ‘im fer long - just hold ‘im fer long enough that I can freeze ‘im with this. That oughta cool ‘im down.”

Jo silently nodded, and immediately stepped to one side in a ready position, treading carefully on the ice, as if she’d done this hundreds of times. Stan didn’t think much about it - based on what she’d said of her family history, she probably has a military background.

Stan sighed, as it dawned on him what he might need to sacrifice if this plan was to work; he pulled his wallet out with his free hand, removing his one and only debit card. Compy’s a smart critter - if he just threw a piece of plastic that looks like a debit card, Compy would sense the difference; and he couldn’t just throw cash, from the looks of things, the dino had that in abundance. He needed something _more._

Gripping the Freeze Gun in his right hand, he tantalizingly held out the debit card in his left, slowly edging forward. “Compy! Look a’ this! I got you a li’l treat! Hundreds o’ bucks, all in this piece o’ plastic! Ya see the money? Ya _like_ the money!”

A curious chirp came from under the box, as Compy’s beak once more emerged, eyes wide, but apprehensive.

“Come on, Compy, yanno you want it! Just think o’ how much, uh… _bedding_ you could… withdraw!”

Slowly, Compy emerged even further from under his box, revealing his entire head, but went no further. He was clearly looking at the debit card, his eyes wide and mouth open, as if he was about to salivate over it. For a moment, Stan almost felt bad about what he was about to do - he _had_ taken a liking to Compy, for a bit, until he started scaring away all his customers by stealing their money and hoarding it all to himself. Given some proper training, perhaps he could have been a real asset. ...Then again, if he _had_ somehow tracked him down all the way to Australia and froze Ford with his own stuff, maybe he didn’t _need_ training...

Stan shook off those thoughts when he twitched slightly - and Compy, following his every movement, twitched with him.

“Yyyyep, there ya go…” Stan said. “Ya want it? Then _go get it!”_

Stan threw the debit card down on the floor in front of Compy - like lightning, the little dino struck, lunging right at the card; and, equally as fast, Jo dived in after him, grabbing him by the neck. An indistinct blurry cacophony of struggling and screeching followed, as Jo rolled about, trying to get a better grip on the nimble reptile, while Compy tried to escape her clutches.

“UGH! ‘Old still, ya bloody _livin’ anachronism!”_ she roared, as she caught hold of Compy with both hands, permitting her to rise to her feet. The friction of the ice beneath her made her slip and slide, and Compy squirmed, struggled, scratched and screeched, anything to get her to slip up and free him, but she retained her footing. Stan gasped in astonishment at the sight - had she dealt with dinosaurs before? It’d explain why she was so nonchalant about seeing one, at least.

Finally, she caught him in a fist, holding him far away from her body. _“NOW!”_ she yelled, snapping Stan back to attention. 

Mercifully, though the Freeze Gun was one of Ford’s gizmos, it still looked and functioned like a normal gun - just point and shoot. He pointed the gun at the squirming dinosaur in Jo’s hand, and fired a stream of icy vapours at him - and in an instant, the squirming and the screeching stopped, as he was frozen solid in a block of ice - along with the hand Jo held him in.

That wasn’t the end of it, however - Jo turned to face the much larger block of ice that Stanford was still frozen in, lifted up her frozen hand like an icy hammer, and with a grunt of exertion, brought it down hard, smashing the ice on her hand to pieces. The block of ice was only a ‘coating’ and so Compy was largely unharmed, though apparently shocked from the impact - he fell to the floor, covered in icy dust, and began to roll around, groaning.

Stan dropped the Freeze Gun and began to lean against the wall, catching his breath; the adrenaline from that moment was still pumping hard, he needed to clear his head, start thinking properly - this wasn’t over, he still needed to unfreeze his brother, and then they could figure out what to do about Jo. 

In that miasma of adrenaline, he caught sight of Compy, lying prone, looking kinda pathetic, and for just a fraction of a second, he felt an… inexplicable urge to pick the little demon up and cradle him like a baby, and let him know he’s okay, and-

Stan slapped himself. _“Focus,_ Stan, ya still got Fordsy to deal with…” he reminded himself.

Jo flexed her now-unfrozen hand, clearing away the ice block’s frosty remains. She didn’t say anything, but Stan could see her face twist into a grimace of… fury? He wasn’t sure how to describe it, he just knew that she already had a plan in mind.

“Quick question, Stan-O,” she said, “if I said I knew a way to get ‘im outta there but it requires that I use a knife, would you mind?”

Stan blinked.

“Only if you agree to never call me ‘Stan-O’ ever again.”

Jo shrugged, as she again reached down to her feet. “Bloody spoilsport…” she said, retrieving a knife she was keeping hidden inside one of her boots, spinning it between her fingers with a flourish - and not any ordinary knife, either. It looked old - ancient, even - and kinda fancy? 

Stan didn’t have much time to examine the knife before Jo wedged the blade inside a crack in Ford’s ice block that she’d created with her earlier hammer blow, and began to punch down on the handle like it was a chisel. With each punch, the cracks in the ice began to spread more and more, and each was delivered with more strength, speed and ferocity than the last - she was _really_ getting into this.

Finally, after about seven punches, the cracks finally covered the entire block; it broke apart in short order, creating another thick cloud of frost dust - and Ford, now once again mobile, rolled over onto his side, hacking and coughing to get the taste of ice out of his mouth.

 _“Stanford!_ Are you okay?! What the hell happened?!” Stan asked, immediately rushing to help him up, his happiness at his brother’s release tempered by his anger that Ford got himself frozen in the first place.

“Ugh… yeah, I’m fine, just… minor case of hypothermia, nothing a hot bottle of dihydrogen monoxide won’t fix... bizarrely intelligent _Compsognathus_ specimen, somehow mailed itself to me, turned my own equipment against me… for what purpose, I cannot say...”

Stan helped Ford to his feet. “Wait wait wait- Compy _mailed himself_ to you?!”

Ford stopped to rub his bleary eyes, red from extended contact with his frozen prison. _“...Compy?_ That thing has a _name?”_

His curiosity piqued, Stan rushed over to the overturned box Compy had been sheltering under; turning it over, he could see the crude name and address on the top, the sloppy stamps, the scratches - some of which were probably air holes. It was addressed to Stanford Pines, not Stanley, but he assumed that Compy was still not privy to the 30-year-switcheroo he’d pulled with his twin.

“Yes, he has a name!” Stan shot back, turning to face him. “Ya remember, I was tellin’ ya about the dino egg I hatched last summer? An’ you said I… what, imprinted on ‘im?”

Ford leaned up against the wall and slid down it, finally sitting on the floor. “Yes, I believe... that was the case... though that doesn’t _quite_ explain how he was able to, again, _mail himself_ to you, and competently utilize complex technology - while lacking opposable thumbs, mind you. There’s something Weird going on with that specimen...”

 _“Compy,”_ Stan felt the need to correct him, for uncertain reasons; and for equally uncertain reasons, he headed over to Compy - still resting on the floor, in shock - and gently picked him up in both arms. The little dinosaur’s eyes gazed up at Stan, and he felt this... weird warm feeling inside him. Sure, Compy had been a nuisance, but... he had mailed himself all the way here, apparently just to see his 'Mama Stan' again. Why else would he be here? He'd escaped the petting zoo, he could go literally anywhere he wanted - and he came right back to Stan. Had he been spending the past year learning how to write just to pull this off?

“Stanley,” Ford spoke up. Stan would have answered, but for some reason he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Compy’s. The little dumb lizard just looked so... _clueless_ in this state. He’s a smart fella, but he’s got no direction in life. He hungers, not for money or meat, but for a _purpose._ A purpose only Stan can provide, but never wanted to.

_“Stanley!”_

Stan huffed, looking back at Ford. _“What?!”_

“Stanley, who is this?”

Ford was looking up at Jo, who for the past minute had just been... silently staring at Ford? Looking uncharacteristically gobsmacked? Oh yeah, Stan almost forgot she was here... seemed she could go quiet and become part of the scenery when she wanted, too. Impressive, given… _everything_ about her appearance.

“Oh. Yeah, I prob’ly shoulda introduced you two. She’s Jo Zhou, the barber-slash-hairdresser; my contact in Towns...ville. Gave me my dollar-top! An’ she freed you, that too.”

Ford groaned in irritation, and he got back to his feet. _“Stanley,_ what did I tell you, you can’t just invite strangers onto the boat! Especially when I’m here!”

Immediately, Stan’s face twisted into a disapproving scowl. “Really, Sixer? We’re doin’ _this_ again? I just told ya, she saved ya from spendin’ the rest’a yer life as an egg-flavoured popsicle. A _‘thank you’_ would be nice.”

“That’s not what I- _nngghhh...”_ Ford tried to argue, before finally gritting his teeth and pinching his nose. “Okay, I probably _should_ show some gratitude, yes...”

He turned to face Jo, at least _trying_ to put on a friendly face. “Please excuse my lack of manners, Miss Zhou. My name’s Doctor Stanford Pines. Thank you for helping my brother free me from the icy clutches of... ‘Compy the _Compsognathus’._ ...That is _not_ a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”

Ford offered her a handshake, which she graciously accepted. “Uh… g’day, Doctor Pines,” she said, sounding oddly shaken - it was obvious she noticed Ford’s sixth finger, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Still try’na, yanno, wrap my head around…” she continued, making a vague finger-circling gesture.

“Yes, yes, I understand, living dinosaurs and functioning Freeze Rays are a lot to take in…” Ford said, trying to regain his confidence.

“I could really do with a cold one right about now, actually. Ya got any booze in ‘ere?” Jo said, walking over to the fridge. She was halfway through opening it when Ford rushed over - barely avoiding slipping over again - and forcibly closed it before she could even look inside. 

_“Nope!_ No, we do _not_ drink alcohol on this ship! It’s uh… it interferes with our work!”

Jo scratched the shaved half of her head. “Ya don’t drink? What kinda sailors are ya?”

“We’re no ordinary sailors. I believe my brother may have told you we’re international treasure hunters, but the truth is… somewhat more complicated. You see, we’re actually…”

Stan and Jo both looked expectantly at Ford, as he was clearly trying to puzzle a way out of this; the way he glanced at the ceiling, muttering some numbers under his breath - probably just to reassure himself.

“...We work for a top-secret government research institute; for national security reasons, the nature of our work is highly classified. So I’m sure you can understand me when I tell you this:” he tried to stand up as straight as possible, jabbing a finger in Jo’s direction. _“Under no circumstances_ must a _single word_ of what’s happened here leave this boat! I cannot stress this enough. If our superiors discover even the remote possibility of a leak, we would, _at best,_ lose our jobs - at worst, our very lives may be forfeit; and that’s to say nothing of the measures they might take to silence _you._ They would probably prefer it if we killed you for stumbling upon this; fortunately for all of us, I abhor senseless murder. In fact, it’s probably best you stay away from both of us for the foreseeable future.”

Jo silently nodded - somehow, hearing what would sound pretty terrifying to most people made _her_ regain her confidence - but Stan stepped forward. “Woah, hold on a sec, Sixer; is this _really_ necessary? I mean, I get the confidentiality, but keepin’ away? I-I mean, me an’ her were gonna go on a… ‘platonic outing’.”

Jo turned back to face him, that red stuff appearing on her face again. Did she have some condition? “We are? Ya never agreed to nothin’.”

Ford’s pointed finger turned to Stan, his brow shooting up. “Wait, a platonic… oh, _no,_ I should have known…”

“What?!” Stan said, throwing his arms wide - and then very quickly catching Compy before he could fall to the floor again. “Oh, I geddit; I know what yer thinkin’, Ford, an’ it’s _not_ like that!”

“Not like _what?_ What are you implyin’, mate?” Jo said, advancing on Ford slightly and poking him in the chest with her own - much stronger - finger.

Ford immediately stepped back and raised his hands defensively - even after all this time, the old high school instincts are still going strong, it looks like. “Alright, alright, fine! There’s _nothing_ going on between you two! But seriously though, what ‘platonic outing’ is this?”

“Well…” Jo said, calming down, “I _was_ gonna ask if we could go gamblin’. Yanno, ‘People’s Poker’ an’ all that.”

Ford nervously rubbed the back of his head. “Gambling? With Stanley? I’m not sure if that’s a good-”

 _“YES!”_ Stan cut in, fist-pumping for emphasis.

“Now, Stanley, let’s think about this-”

“Oh! An’ maybe when my great-niece and nephew get here in a couple days, we can all go to that Chinese buffet you told us about!”

Jo nodded again - a _hint_ of a genuine smile formed on her face, at least. “Yeah, yeah… wholesome family outin’, ain’t been on one’a those in a long time.”

Ford tried to retort to this turn of events, but only indistinct spluttering stammers came out. Finally, he sighed. “Ugh, I suppose there’s no point trying to stop you. Alright, you can have your ‘platonic outing’, but _promise_ me, Stanley, you’ll know when to quit!”

Stanley smirked. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Sixer… I think ol’ Compy here mighta helped me in more ways than he can imagine…” he said, glancing down at all the money that Compy had brought with him - and then Compy himself, now asleep in his arms, still stirring. Yes… _yes,_ the little lizard’s been a pest, but he had obvious potential. If he could channel those smarts and those sticky claws into a more productive venture… he and Stan could really go places.

Ford turned back to Jo. “And _you,_ Miss Zhou; _please,_ for the love of Tesla, watch what you say in public about this! Forgive me if I’m being forward, but you don’t understand the risk I’m taking to accommodate- wait, is that an authentic Ancient Egyptian dagger?!” Ford’s entire tone changed as he noticed the knife that Jo had been holding in one of her hands throughout this entire affair. He knelt down slightly to inspect it. “Hmm… superb craftsmanship, looks like it could be real meteoric iron… gold-inlaid hilt… possibly eighteenth-dynasty, New Kingdom era… just like the one Howard Carter unearthed in the Valley of the Kings in 1925! This could be a major archaeological find! Miss Zhou, where on earth did you find this?!”

Without caring much for Ford’s scrutiny, Jo also knelt down and placed the knife back into its hiding spot in her boot. 

“I stole it,” she said, casually.

“Oh. ...Huh… from _who?”_

“...King Tut.”

Ford’s jaw dropped for a second or two, but before he could start jumping to all sorts of wacky conclusions, Stan cut in, rolling his eyes. “Ford, she’s being sarcastic! It’s _obviously_ a replica! Well-made replica, sure, but a replica nonetheless! Surely the fact that it weren’t covered in thousands o’ years worth of… dust and… scarab dung… tipped you off, right?”

His brother’s jaw snapped shut again and he gazed at the floor, crestfallen. “...Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QV PZ UVA DOHA ZOL ZLLTZ.


End file.
